Our Guided Legacy
by LUNAticX
Summary: Sequel to The Other Side Of Us. After the battle, the nations become separated and find their unification disbanded. The danger of the Frost Men's advance lingers. Luckily enough, there are a few old "friends" who are willing to help. With still half of the nations MIA, can the remaining few pull together from their inner conflicts and prevent the world from falling into chaos?
1. I: Prologue

**August 3 | Three weeks after battle**

Greece emerged from the excavation shaft and planted his shovel into the ground. The sun beat heavily upon his back as he took a gulp from his canteen.

For three weeks, he'd been trying to uncover the Roman siege tunnel that Ancient Rome had abandoned amidst the invasion of an alien entity—the Frost Men, a subterranean anomaly bent on wiping out the human race.

Even with the help of a dozen other diggers, he'd been having no luck penetrating the actual chambers of the tunnels. Most of it collapsed centuries ago. Finding a good section was proving to be a nuisance.

He sat down on a lone limestone block, a dozen questions racing through his mind.

It wouldn't be long now before someone actually broke through. The problem was _what_ he would find in there once it's been breached. Would the Frost Men be in there, waiting in the shadows? Could they even live for that long down there? Although it was possible for them to die, no one said they weren't immortal.

"Heracles, you need to take a break."

The Grecian shifted slightly to the side as a taller figure sat down beside him. "Why are you here again?"

"Helping you," said Sadik Adnan. "Though I must admit it hasn't been productive. Maybe you should stop."

"I know it's in there. If you think it's futile, then leave. I don't need your help anyway."

"Don't you think you're being a little obsessive with it?"

"Obsessive?" Greece blinked slowly. "You wouldn't understand."

Sadik raised his eyebrows provocatively. "Try me."

Heracles tried. He tried unsuccessfully in getting the Turk to leave. But Sadik wasn't budging. Heracles had no choice but to tell him the truth. (It wasn't like Turkey had anyone to gossip to—he wasn't even in the EU.)

"I haven't told anyone yet, not even Japan," Heracles began. "The reason my mother died was not because of the Romans. It was the Frost Men. They were the ones who sent away the Romans, but they also drew my mother to her downfall. Right here—it happened in these tunnels. With her dying breath, she sealed them away, hoping to stop their advance."

"So what's with you wanting to uncover them if you know she had a good reason for sealing it in the first place? Don't you think that she sealed the tunnels away to protect _you_? Whatever's in there, there was a _reason_ she closed it off—"

"I've considered that. It's not easy, especially when it's a memory you want to avoid remembering. I need to know why she sealed away these tunnels and not the others littered about under my country. What makes these tunnels that much more important?"

Sadik patted Heracles shoulder. Heracles slapped his hand off. "Look, I have no objections with your project—I mean, Ancient Greece _is_ your mother—but you need to at least stop and eat once in a while. You're a nation, but with your current economy, you should consider keeping your strength up."

Heracles knew he was right, much to his chagrin. He stood and headed to the tent, preferably to take a much needed nap. "You can also go home already, you know. I don't need you here."

"Yeah, right. You're not getting rid of me so easily."

* * *

_Brrrinnng . . . brrrinnng . . . brrrinnng . . . brr—_

"Heeello? The Awesome Me is speaking."

"_Ve~ Can I talk to Germany?_"

"Sure thing. Let me call him down."

Gilbert placed a hand over the speaking part of the phone and took a deep breath:

"WEST! GET YOUR FREAKING BUTT DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT! ITALY WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!" Gilbert released his hand. "He's coming."

"_Thank you, Gil!_"

The sound of thumping feet could be heard all the way through the house. Ludwig showed up at the top of the staircase, looking very much aggravated. "_Bruder_, why can't you just bring the phone to me like a normal person? You don't need to yell and wake up everyone in the house."

"Sorry, West. I didn't want to walk upstairs."

"_Ja_, about that . . . When are you going to move out my basement? Your drums are annoying the hell out of everyone."

"Hey! For your information, _you_ are living in _my_ upstairs."

"That makes absolutely zero sense. Pass me the phone."

Gilbert tossed up the cordless phone and returned back to his epic drum solo. Ludwig pressed the phone to his ear, moving well away from his brother and to a secluded corner of his home.

"Hello, Feliciano. What did you want to talk about?"

The Italian _ve'd_ happily. "_I just thought—maybe—that we could hang out today. We've been so busy these past few weeks that we haven't had any time for a breather. Do you want to go see a movie today? Or maybe we can go out and enjoy some pasta together. Actually, I've made some already. If you want—_"

"Sorry, Feliciano. I'm still busy today. Maybe another time."

"_You said that yesterday._"

"You can't expect me to be free the day after you call me."

"_But I called three days ago too, and you said you were busy._"

"Italy, how about I call you when I'm free?—seeing as you _always_ seem to be free."

"_Um, okay._"

He sounded so disappointed. Ludwig felt guilty for making Feliciano go through this. "Besides," he added quickly, "I'm sure you have your own responsibilities to take care of. With Romano out of commission, you have to take care of his work and yours. You do know that, right?"

There was silence on the other end.

"Feliciano . . . ? You _did_ do the paperwork, right?"

"_Umm, Ludwig, I . . . I didn't really notice._"

"It's on your desk!"

"_Oh! So it is. Wow, that's a big pile._"

Ludwig mentally face palmed. "You can send some over and I'll do it."

"_But you said you were busy._"

"_Ja_, but I'll just make Prussia do it. He has so much time now that he isn't a nation anymore. Maybe finally I can cease his constant drumming—he thinks he's actually _good_ at it."

"_Speaking of Gilbert, he's been informing me about how you've been out of it these past few weeks. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?_"

Ludwig considered running downstairs and smashing Gilbert's drum set through his head. The banging was so damn loud. "Did he tell you?"

"_Not in detail. But I've already noticed a change in you. Maybe you should take a break after all, _si?"

"Feliciano, you really don't need to worry about me. Worry about your own country. How's Lovino been doing?"

"_He's still sleeping. Ludwig, ever since we brought him back to Rome, he hasn't woken up once . . . I tried, but he hasn't eaten, he hasn't spoken, he hasn't moved—he just sleeps all the time. Is that normal?_"

"That sounds like what Italians usually do. He'll be fine, Feliciano. He's just recuperating."

"Ve,_ I hope you're right._"

"If that's all, I need to get back to work. Will you be fine on your own?"

"_Yes. Thanks for talking with me, Ludwig._"

"It's no problem. If that's all, I'll be ending this talk."

"_Yep, that's all. Bye, Ludwig!_"

"Goodbye, Feliciano."

_Click._

Truthfully, Ludwig didn't think he'd be spending any time with Italy at all.

* * *

**Remember, this is series 2 of ****_The Other Side Of Us_****. If you haven't read it, go there first. Or else this fic will be really confusing for you.**

**For those who have stuck with me this whole way, thank you for reading! I fear that this fic will be the end of this story, but that doesn't mean I'll stop writing Hetalia. (Okay, maybe I will since I do have other interests, but one day I'LL BE BACK.)**

**Next chapter is titled _Memories_. Romano's dreams and England's regrets.  
**


	2. II: Memories

**It's been so long since I've put up a disclaimer. Just to make it legit, I will.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.  
**

* * *

Ludwig returned downstairs and placed the phone back in its stand. Gilbert temporarily ceased his incessant drumming to bother Ludwig about the topic of his conversation with Feliciano.

"Why do you want to know? All we talked about was pasta. _Bruder_, he hasn't touched his paperwork even once."

"Can you blame him? His brother almost died. I don't think _I'd_ be able to work up the motivation to finish work if you suddenly lapsed into a coma."

"You're not a nation anymore. You're not obligated to do work."

"And whose fault was that?"

A touchy subject. Ludwig's gaze hardened. "I'm not the one who made the decision to dismiss you. I had no input."

"You _could_ have at least backed me up."

"That's the past, Gilbert. I don't want to talk about it."

"So that's what this is about." Gilbert stuffed his hands into his back pockets and rocked on his heels. "I see . . . So you blew Feliciano off because you're secretly afraid of what he might think of you."

"No. I meant it when I said I was busy."

"Feliciano's a smart kid, despite first appearances. You can't keep up this pretense forever, West. I bet he's already suspecting you."

Ludwig wheeled around and marched up the stairs. "I don't want to talk about this."

"West!" barked Gilbert. "You need to understand—you cannot keep this fact buried inside you forever. If you told Feliciano or Kiku, they could help you. Why do you keep insisting on doing everything by yourself?!"

Ludwig halted his ascent. Without looking down he said, "I have to. This was my mistake, not theirs. I hadn't considered Feliciano and Kiku's positions before now, and I realize it's not their burden to bear. This is something I have to do on my own."

"Oh yeah?" Gilbert gave him the all-clear. "Fine then. Go ahead and drown in your own self-pity. I just want you to know that Feliciano would go to the ends of the earth for you. All you're doing now is taking him for granted."

Germany paused at the steps for a few more seconds. Gilbert actually thought he was going to submit and say he was wrong, but the German stomped up the rest of the stairs and slammed shut the basement door.

Gilbert scowled and continued drumming. He upped the volume all the way, just to spite his younger brother.

Upstairs, the smell of Austrian cooking wafted through the house.

. . . Since when was Austria staying over?

* * *

**London, England**

It was always raining in London. Never will one go a day without witnessing some sort of drizzle on this island nation.

A dark mass of mourners gathered at the funeral. Governmental officers lined up at the sides, dressed in their formal uniforms. The rest were the weeping wives and the children. The ones directly affected stood nearest to the front. Picture frames of the late soldiers stood against their gravestones, surrounded by vivacious flowers, a contrast to the dim, gloomy morning of this particular day.

The rain pounded against any surface it came into contact with, filling the air with an endless, deafening rustle. Cool, brisk smells of the morning mixed with the rain, adding a chilling atmosphere to the already grim procession.

England was poised right next to the Queen and the Prime Minister, his shoulders slouched, his head hung low. Unlike the others, he carried no umbrella.

Rain: such horrible weather for a bloody funeral. Not that he hated it—on the contrary, he found it refreshing, which was why he was rarely seen with an umbrella. But today the raining was utterly uncalled for. Especially when you were honouring the dead. It showed absolutely no mercy. All it did was add to the misery.

The Queen was addressing the lives lost and presenting the late soldiers with honourary titles. They deserved it on every level. Arthur couldn't hear much of what she was saying. He was too absorbed in his own thoughts.

Before that, he'd given his own little speech about the steadfastness of the men and their trademark fearlessness when faced with death. But it was hard to deliver. He kept choking up at the wrong places, and the minister had to intervene several times.

He couldn't do it. For the world of him, he couldn't finish what he wanted to say. He was unable to finish his damned speech because he was too damned a coward to continue. He didn't say that if it wasn't for him, none of the men would be dead. If _he_ hadn't given them the order, they would still be here.

It was his fault, and he admitted it. No one else outright spoke it, but Arthur knew how they felt.

Queen Elizabeth II stepped away from the front, and they lowered Jeffrey Payne's casket into the ground.

Arthur watched the entire procession, never saying a word—just observing.

The weeping of a woman caught his ears—it was louder than the pummelling of the rain. He looked over to his left and singled out Jeffrey Payne's wife—Lilith. Arthur cast his eyes to the ground in shame.

"You can't blame yourself for what happened. They were prepared to die for you from the start. Arthur, the minute they joined UNIT, they knew what they were getting themselves into."

"Yes, but don't you see, Elizabeth? They never asked for _this_. I was—" Arthur gripped his hands. His leather gloves creased noisily. "I was too careless. If I'd been more responsible with my orders, they would still be here with us, not lying in their coffins."

"What's done is done," said the Queen. "I'm just glad you're alive. It's them versus you. Who would you rather have? Who is the more important?"

_Them. It has always been them. My people. I would gladly take their place if I could._

Elizabeth placed a hand on her nation's shoulder. "You did the right thing. Don't beat yourself up over it. I'm sure they would have wanted the same."

Arthur lowered his head. "I'm so sorry," he muttered hoarsely. "I'm so, so sorry. I should have . . . I could have—"

"You are a brave soul, Arthur. All of us are proud of who we are, of our country. No one blames you."

England glanced at Lilith again. Perhaps he couldn't get to the end of his speech, but he needed to apologize to her. It was the least he could manage without breaking down. He squared his shoulders. "E-excuse me, Elizabeth. I'll be a moment."

The Queen inclined her head. "Of course."

Arthur approached the mourning window. His voice dropped to a gentle murmur: "Er, Lilith Payne? I'm . . . Arthur Kirkland."

Lilith looked up and hastily wiped her tears away. "N-nice to meet you." Judging from her accent, it was clear she was Irish. "So I see you're the man whom my Jeffrey saved? Then that's good. He is a hero."

"Yes," Arthur agreed. "It wasn't only me. He helped saved all those civilians, and all the other diplomats at the meeting. We are eternally grateful to him. He was brave, loyal, and courageous. I could never hope to be like him."

"Thank you, Mr. Kirkland, for those words. Is there something else you'd like to talk to me about?"

"I just want to apologize for what happened."

"I don't see why. You are obviously a very important person, yes? Surely my husband's death had to have been worth it—"

"You're wrong." Arthur clenched his fists. "He shouldn't have listened to what I said. I shouldn't have given him such an order. It's my fault he's dead. And I know that there's nothing I can say to bring him back, nor return you your happiness. I am forever indebted to you, your family, and all your future generations. There must be something I can do—anything—I can't just leave his memory like this."

Lilith smiled. "You saying those things about Jeffrey have already earned you my forgiveness and gratitude. But there _is_ something I'd like to know."

"Name it."

"Why is it that no one will tell me how Jeffrey died?"

Arthur froze, at a loss of what to say.

"Why is it that no one has told me why you are as important as they make you to be?" Lilith said, her eyes scrutinizing, her voice accusing. "Was it one of his secret operations again?"

". . . Something like that," Arthur answered slowly. "I cannot tell you exactly what he was protecting me against, but I think it's better if you don't know. As for me . . . Well, if I told you how important I actually was, you'd be surprised I don't have a higher status." He tried laughing at the end, but it turned out rather awkward, so he shut up. "That's about it, really."

Lilith nodded uncertainly. "W-well, thank you, Mr. Kirkland. I fancy this chat with you, but there is a lot I need to be doing now that Jeffrey is no longer with us. I have three little children that need watching."

Oh, he knew what it felt like to have so many youngsters running about in his home. "Yes! Of course, of course. My apologies. I know I should've kept you—I tend to get carried away sometimes when I speak. Sorry if I've dragged it out or anything—"

"It is no bother, Mr. Kirkland."

"Right. S-sorry."

Arthur waited until she left and then turned back to the Queen. "That went well."

"Indeed. Try not doing that again, Arthur. You're going to give the Prime Minister a headache."

The funeral had just about ended there. The black-cloaked crowd dispersed, leaving just the Queen and England standing in the rain, staring at Jeffrey Payne's grave. Arthur loosened his tie and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

"So now what?"

The Queen raised her aged face to the sky, peering past the dark shadows of her umbrella. "I'd imagine the battle at the hotel was only the beginning. You've mentioned a certain transmitter, haven't you?"

"Yes, but unfortunately the only person alive who has access to it is unconscious. And we certainly can't try building our own without the blueprints. I could always try to grab America and demand he tell us the materials, but that won't do much good."

"No, I doubt it." It was clear from his tone of voice that England was suffering from depression. Elizabeth opted to change that. "Arthur, would you mind coming with me to the palace for a bit? There's something I'd like to show you."

"Something?"

"I suppose 'someone' would be more accurate, but that all depends if we get there. Now help out a frail, old woman, would you? It's a long walk back to the car."

Arthur hooked his arm around the Queen's and gently led her away. "I remember when your mother would ask the same of me. And I always told her that I was far older than she was, and that I was perfectly fine walking on my own."

"You don't count, Arthur. My mother might have tolerated your sense of humour, but I don't and I'm not going to."

"Maybe I should try it on David."

"I told you: You're going to give him a headache."

* * *

_"Grandpa?"_

_Ancient Rome did not seem to acknowledge his presence._

_"Grandpa," Romano tried again._

_No answer._

_"Goddammit," said the tiny child. "Answer me, Grandpa Bastard."_

_"Fratello?"_

_Lovino looked behind his shoulder. Feliciano—equally small—approached their grandfather. Rome noticed him and scooped him up into his arms._

_"How are you, Feli?"_

_North Italy beamed widely. "Good! Are we going to draw again today, Grandpa?"_

_"Of course, of course. Just after I sign a few papers, okay?"_

_"Okay!" Feliciano hopped off Rome's lap. "Don't work too hard."_

_"Run along and play with your brother. I'll be done in a second."_

_Feliciano skipped past Lovino, who stood staring as their grandfather shifted painfully in his seat. He couldn't remember how long it had been like this. Ancient Rome was growing tired, he would get aches in his bones . . . He looked fit and strong as ever, but there were scars covering him all over._

_Feliciano was too naïve to realize why, but Lovino knew._

_Rome couldn't rule for much longer. It was high time he announced an heir._

_With all the attention Feliciano kept getting, Lovino was fairly certain who the heir would be. He exited the room, grumbling to himself._

_'_Fratello_ is better than me at everything. It's only natural Grandpa Bastard would choose the more useful of us. If he keeps expanding and annoying Germania, he's going to get stabbed in the back and get killed off for good.'_

This was the start of the 5th Century.

* * *

**Just a little history lesson as well as a transition chapter for when . . . Oh, you'll know soon. Regarding England's little part of the story . . . Oh, you'll find out soon.**

**Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome. I enjoy what you guys have to say. Sometimes it spares me a good laugh too, and I write back.  
**


	3. III: Farewell

**Sorry about the Italics. I have to, since this is Romano's dream . . . I know people who find reading Italics a little annoying (including me), so just bear with it. Thanks, and enjoy!**

* * *

The dream shifted.

_It was now a warm afternoon in the middle of June. Rome found his grandsons under the pear tree in the orchard, the one they always loved to climb and hide in when running away from the temple seers._

_But something was wrong.  
_

_"Veneziano?!"  
_

_Rome ran forward to assess the little child's condition. Feliciano's hands and knees were scraped raw red.  
_

_He turned to Romano for confirmation. "What happened to him?"  
_

_Evidently Lovino had been trying to nurse his little brother's injury, but he wasn't very adept in the medical area. "He fell off the branch. I tried to catch him, but__—_"  


_"Nothing is broken, right?"  
_

_Lovino frowned. "No, but__—_"  


_"You should have been watching Feli and preventing this from happening. You're the oldest. This is part of your responsibility."  
_

_"Don't you think I know that, bastard?"  
_

_"Don't blame him," said Feliciano. "He tried. He really did. It was my idea to climb on the gnarly branch."  
_

_The gnarly branch of that particular pear tree was infamous. Shaped like an old witch's hand, it was difficult to grasp on to because it was situated far from where the majority of the branches were. There were no hand or footholds to help with the climb. Feliciano tried it out and slipped off, coming short a few inches from succeeding.  
_

_"Never do that again," said Rome, after hearing the full story. He faced Lovino. "I'm sorry I blamed you, Roma."  
_

_Lovino didn't like the growing tension. He _humph'd _and padded back inside the villa._

_"Let's get you cleaned up. It's about time for your nap, too."  
_

_Rome shouldered Feliciano and followed in after his brother. By the time Rome was finished dressing Feliciano's injury, Lovino was already snoring away on his bed. He placed Feliciano down beside him.  
_

_"Grandpa, tell me a story."  
_

_"A story, huh?" Rome sat down on a stool and scratched his beard. "What story would you like to hear?"  
_

_"One of your epic fights, Grandpa."  
_

_"Epic fights, huh? Which epic fight are you talking about? I have a lot of those."  
_

_Rome went ahead to tell his grandson about the story of how the Roman Empire was founded: There was this wolf called Lupa, and she took in these two enfants named Romulus and Remus. Romulus went ahead to be____—_  


_"Tell me about your pretty blond friend."  
_

_"Feli!" Rome complained. "I was in the middle of an epic story. It has a lot of fighting, too!"_

_"I want to know about your lady friend."_

_Rome exhaled. "Fine. Pretty blond friend, huh? Hmm . . . Which blond friend are you talking about? I also have a lot of those."  
_

_"The girly one."  
_

_"That doesn't really narrow it down, Veneziano."  
_

_"Ger . . . German . . . ia?"  
_

_"Germania? Oh, him! You do realize he's male, right?"  
_

_Feliciano tilted his head to the side. "Huh?"  
_

_Rome chuckled. "Okay. What do you want to know about him?"  
_

_"Is it . . . nice having a friend?"  
_

_"Of course! Why would you ask?"  
_

_Feliciano sighed. "I don't have many friends, Grandpa. I never go out and see the world. It's hard imagining what it's like, that's all."  
_

_"I'll take you out one day, how about that? You can make a few friends then!"  
_

_"Really? Wow, okay!"  
_

That's right,_ thought Rome._ No matter what he is, Feliciano's still a child. He wants company from others his age. The bitter truth is that nations don't age, while everyone else does. He'd outgrow those friends of his, and he'd watch them die. I don't want experiencing the feeling of loss. But if that's what he really wants . . .

_"Speaking of which," said Romano, chilling with his elbow resting against his cheek, "why are you hurt? It was that bastard Germania again, wasn't it."  
_

_Rome shrieked in surprise. "Roma! I thought you were sleeping!"  
_

_"Well, I_ was._ You guys are too loud."_

_"Go back to sleep, Roma."  
_

_"But Germania was the one who hurt you, right?"  
_

_Rome sighed. "If I tell you, will you go to sleep?"  
_

_"Sure."  
_

_"Grandpa," said Feliciano, "I thought Germania was your friend. Why would he hurt you?"  
_

_"It wasn't only Germania. In fact, our relationship's pretty stable____—just a few squabbles here and there. Recently, there's been . . . another problem that I'm having trouble dealing with."_  


_____"Oh no. Is it those shady guys from the east again?"  
_

_____"No, nothing like that. Just promise me you won't go digging underground."  
_

_____"What's wrong with digging?" Lovino asked, scoffing. "Is there some kind of evil curse hidden in the dirt?"  
_

_____"It's_ what's living _down there. I don't know what they are, and they haven't posed a great danger to us yet, but . . . I've been told they're held responsible for bringing down nations before us."_

_"What? But why?" asked Feliciano. "What are they?"  
_

_"I haven't been told their names, but they are not to be messed with. Swear to me that you will not near a single hole or crevice in your lifetime."  
_

_"What's the big deal if it's a hole?" said Lovino. "Sounds like a load of bull to me."  
_

_Rome's face was grave. "Just trust me on this. You're better off not knowing."  
_

_"You promised us a story."  
_

_"No, I promised_ Feliciano_ a story. And I told him one."_

_"So tell me a story."  
_

_"Roma . . ." Rome threatened warningly.  
_

_"How'd your last campaign go?"  
_

_Rome blinked. "Campaign?"  
_

_"Yeah, your tunnels."  
_

_"How did you know about that?!"  
_

_"It's not a secret," said Lovino. "I poked around in your scrolls a little____—_"  


_"Haven't I told not to go in there a billion times, Roma?!" Rome demanded, his voice rising. "Why do you keep on insisting in antagonizing me? Don't you see I've already got a lot on my plate? I don't need you causing more problems!"  
_

_"Ve~ Please don't fight. You're going to wake up the Emperor."  
_

_"Look, that's it. No more stories. Go to bed."  
_

_"Grandpa, I'd also like to know about your tunnel project. How did it go?"  
_

_"It was a failure," said Rome tightly. "We found something down there that didn't agree with us. Our men kept disappearing. I had to call a retreat before the contamination spread to the Roman Empire. The same cannot be said for Ancient Greece."  
_

_"I liked Ancient Greece. She was a nice lady."  
_

_Rome stretched his legs, releasing the building tension in his bones. "Are we done here? I need to attend to my work."  
_

_"Yep~! Thanks for staying here with us, Grandpa!"  
_

_"Are you happy, Roma? Do you need anything else?"  
_

_Lovino flipped around, so his back was facing his grandfather. "NO," he said. "It's fine."  
_

_"All right then. I'll check back in 30 minutes. If you're not asleep . . . Well, if you're not asleep, there will be consequences."  
_

_After Rome was out the door, Feliciano turned and tapped his brother on the shoulder. Lovino didn't turn around.  
_

_"Are you okay,_ fratello_?"_

_"I did . . . something wrong again, didn't I?" came Romano's soft voice.  
_

_"No. Grandpa's not mad at you for that. He's just watching out for us, that's all."  
_

_"Why does this always happen to me? Even if it's your fault, he doesn't yell at you. It's always me."  
_

_Feliciano couldn't find anything to say to that. He patted Lovino on the back of the hand. "Grandpa's just stressed. Give him a little time, and he'll pull through."  
_

The scene rippled and faded to blackness, before quickly being replaced by another.

* * *

_Rome's emperor kept pestering him about his next heir. Being the carefree soul he was, Rome blew it off for a good few decades._

_But the wars got to him eventually, and Rome knew he couldn't drag the matter out anymore. It first started out as headaches and little bruises here and there. But the battles grew worse. He lost sleep, his bones began creaking, and he couldn't move without bringing about a lot of pain . . . Anyone would know there was something wrong happening there._

_He was dying. Ancient Rome was disappearing._

_The following day, he gathered his two grandsons in his parlour._

_Lovino had the nerve to show up late, but that was just how he usually was. Feliciano was the only one he really needed present anyway._

_"What do you want to talk about, Grandpa?" little Feliciano asked._

_Rome patted him on the head. "I've been thinking, Ita. How would you like to take over for me when I'm not around?"_

_"Take over?"_

_"What, are you going away or something?" Lovino said._

_"Yeah . . . more or less. So how about it? Do you think you can manage the politics and economy while I'm gone?"_

_"Maybe," said Feliciano. "I mean, you've been teaching me so much! How long would I have to do it for?"_

_"For as long as I'm gone, of course."_

_"Will you come back?"_

_"That all depends," Rome answered honestly. "I'm passing my role onto you, Ita. Do me proud."_

_"What about me?" said Lovino. "Do I get to do anything?"_

_"Ehh, not really."_

_Lovino peered at his feet. He tried hiding his disappointment. After all, what reason did he have to be _disappointed_? No responsibilities meant he could spend all day eating, sleeping, playing and flirting with the ladies down at the market. Politics bored him anyway. Economics was useless._

_"Well, that's about it," said Rome after a while. "You two have some lessons to be getting back to."_

_Feliciano, being the good little boy he was, bounded out the door with excitement. (Who in their right mind would be excited for school?)_

_Lovino stayed behind. Once again, Rome paid him no heed. He was turned, facing his desk, scribbling Latin script down on a piece of parchment._

_"Grandpa," said Romano._

_"Hm? What is it?"_

_"Grandpa, why do you never pay attention to me?"_

_"Why don't you ever, Roma."_

_"Grandpa."_

_Rome sighed and dropped his quill. "Roma, come here."_

_Lovino climbed aboard his grandfather's lap and helped himself onto the desk. There he sat, staring up at his guardian, a slight frown gracing his face._

_"You need to smile more, Roma."_

_His frown deepened. "Answer my question, damn bastard."_

_"Lovino, it's not that I _don't_ pay attention to you. I love both you and Feliciano equally."_

_"So why is he the appointed heir when it should rightfully be me?" Lovino looked off to the side. "I mean, I'm not trying to be selfish, but that's the way it's always been done. The oldest gets the throne, isn't that what you taught us?"_

_"That's right, but—"_

_"Why does it feel like you've abandoned me and casted me aside?"_

_Rome's jaw hung open, ready to say something, but no sound came out._

_"I always think that I'm not important enough, and you love Feliciano more. In any situation I'm left behind, forgotten. I get the fact that I may not be artistic like him, or useful like he is, or loved by everyone as he is, but I feel like I should be given at least a few responsibilities to myself."_

_"Roma, you need to understand that Feliciano was the chosen heir for a reason."_

_"So you are admitting he's better than me."_

_"No! That's not it at all. Being the older of the two of you, you have a greater inheritance than Feliciano does. I want you to be safe, Lovino. If you were heir, countless other nations would be after your head. With me gone, there's no one to protect you."_

_"With you gone," Lovino stated. "It's true then. You are dying."_

_"You know?"_

_"I knew, Grandpa Bastard. The signs told me. Feliciano has noticed too, even a little bit. He probably doesn't want to admit to himself that you're dying, but someone's got to do it. If he won't, I will."_

_Rome smiled fondly at his grandson. "I love you both so very much. Take care of Feliciano for me, Lovino. Make sure nothing happens to him."_

_Lovino bottom lip quivered involuntarily. "D-don't leave us."_

_"Everyone has their time. Unfortunately, mine will come very shortly. Promise me you will take care."_

_"I . . . I promise."_

_"Good. Now go on. Your tutors are waiting."_

_Lovino was stubborn. Rome had to literally shove him out of the room before he had the peace to return back to his work._

_A few weeks later, the Germanics invaded. Ancient Rome went off to war without so much as a farewell, and he never returned. His household grew empty and lifeless. Feliciano kept his promise, handling the duties as best he could. Lovino sat in the shadows, watching over his younger brother and reminiscing about his grandfather's last words to him._

The year was 476 AD. Ancient Rome was wiped off the face of the Earth.

* * *

**So I was out buying frozen pizza the other day, and I stumbled upon a 4-cheese pizza. I read the front and found out that Romano is a type of cheese.**

**Romano . . . is a type of _cheese_. Did any of you know that? Next thing you know, _Veneziano_ is also a type of pasta.  
**


	4. IV: Scandinavia

**Denmark and Norway | Northern regions of Scandinavia**

"We're lost."

"_Noo, _pfft. Stop being so pessimistic. I know where we're going."

"You probably know _where_ we're going, but you don't know _how_ to get there. We've been stuck in the woods for two days, Mathias. And it was all your fault."

Denmark lowered his map and wailed into the frosty air. "I'm sorry, okay?! I didn't know bears liked mead!"

Lukas smacked him over the head. "Bears eat anything—including your stupid head! We've been going without food for 16 hours. Keep this up and we're going to end up as popsicles!"

"You're so mean, Nor!"

"And that's not all. Along with the food, the bear broke the godforsaken compass. How are we going to figure out which direction is North?"

"Err . . . it's pretty cold right now, so I think we're facing North."

Lukas stared at him. "Wow, I was right. You _are_ an idiot. Are you sure the bear hadn't eaten your brain already?"

Mathais's stomach complained loudly. "Man, I'm hungry. Maybe I should just pick some shrubs and eat it?"

"If you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a winter wonderland. I don't think anything here is edible—assuming there's anything here in the first place."

"Well, using the obvious logic, if we keep walking in a straight line, we'd reach civilization at some point, right?"

"In your universe, yes," said Norway very slowly, as if talking to a retarded child. "Right now we're in someplace called _reality_, Mathias. We're surrounded by forest, forest and more forest. The best we could do is wander for days and never meet a single soul. It'd be an eternity until we hit open road. Remember how long it took just to get here. We're completely on our own."

"C'mon! Don't be so negative. I'm sure somebody'll turn up and get us out of here." The Dane checked his cell. "No reception. That's fine. It's not like it would help anyway. Right, Nor?"

Lukas didn't seem to hear him. He was muttering off to himself. "I knew coming here was a bad idea. There's no way Emil, Berwald and Tino would be here. This isn't even our territory—if either one of them was here with us, maybe we'd find our way out. But the worst part of it is, I'm stuck with you . . ."

"We already checked with their parliament," said Mathias, missing the last words of Lukas's sentence. "Where else could they be?"

No one answered that. The truth was they didn't know how to respond. If not in their own countries, just where _could_ they be?

"I forgot how long we've been here already," said Lukas. "In any case, we should keep moving, or we'll freeze to death."

Mathias shouldered his huge axe. "Lead the way."

Lukas rolled his eyes. "Right, because you're utterly useless. Remind me again why you didn't stop that bear from taking our food when you have an axe at your disposal?"

"Huh?"

"Know what? Never mind. You're an idiot."

"Huh?"

Lukas heaved his foot out of the deep snow and planted it forward. He ignored Mathias the rest of the way, who was so oblivious to this fact that he continued to pester Lukas with his idiotic and random observations. About twenty minutes later, they stopped at the sight of a small house in front of them.

"We're saved!" Mathias exclaimed.

"Not quite."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't know who could be living in there. We should be cautious—especially if it's a cabin located in the middle of the woods. Tell me that doesn't sound the least suspicious to you."

"But I'm hungry! Maybe they have food."

"Is food all you could think about?"

"What? I can't help it if—"

"Shh!" Lukas held his arm out to silence him. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Lukas placed a finger to his lips, his head tilted to the side. Awhile later, he tapped his partner's arm. "Stay quiet and follow me."

"Oh, okay!"

"Do you not understand the meaning of quiet?"

"Oh . . . Sorry."

The two Nordics treaded stealthily to the right of them, of which the area was stippled with large evergreen trees. They crouched under the shelter of these broad branches.

Across the clearing, on the other side of the cabin, a faint trace of movement rustled from the tree line.

"What's that?" said Mathias. "A bear?"

"I don't think so. I could barely hear it myself, but with a bit of magical application, it was pretty clear whoever's there operates on two feet. Now shut up."

A few more seconds of disturbance in the foliage, and a slender figure emerged from the treeline.

_She_ was definitely feminine, despite the strong, muscular build. The stranger carried a bow in one hand, a sack of arrows slung over her shoulder, and a large group of skinned game in her other hand. She had the steeliest of grey eyes and long, blonde hair braided back with intricate beads. A slight scowl adorned her face as she easily maneuvered through the snow. She wasn't old, nor was she young, but there lay certain wisdom in the way she carried herself.

"She's pretty," Mathias pointed out.

Norway smacked him on the head.

"What?! She is . . ."

"There's a strict policy we follow, stupid Dane, that says we cannot associate with humans—at least not on _that_ level. I will not have you looking at females in this perspective."

"Chill, man. I was only looking—nothing would come out of it. You're so uptight, jeez."

Meanwhile the woman had moved on over to the tree stump located beside the cabin. She lay down her kill on the stump and beheaded them with a nearby axe, which typically served for chopping wood, if the pile of lumber lay out against the cabin wall said anything.

As soon as Lukas reached forward to hit Mathias again, her head snapped around to the sound of the noise and her bow was strung in less than a second. The next thing any of the Nordics knew, an arrow was embedded three inches away from Mathias's face, inside the tree trunk. The twang of the arrow notified them of how close they'd been to getting shot through the head.

Lukas clapped a hand over Mathias mouth, preventing him from saying anything more stupid, and urged him to stay down.

_Who is that woman? I've never seen a normal human displaying such skill . . ._

"Shame," she said. "I missed."

When she was done beheading the rest of the animals, she hauled them up and slammed the axe back down into the stump. Both Lukas and Mathias cringed at the dull thump.

If they hadn't died via arrows, that axe would not have hesitated to complete the objective.

The blonde woman moved off behind the cabin. As she disappeared from their sight, Lukas instructed Mathias in how to retreat.

"Why? I'm hungry. If we ask her, we can get some food!"

"Is it _always_ food with you?"

"And beer."

Lukas resisted the urge to face palm. "Look, if you haven't noticed, she nearly tried to kill us."

"I'm pretty sure she could have succeeded if she wanted to."

"Just . . . back away with me, okay? We shouldn't bother her."

"Aww, okay. You're the boss, I guess."

"No, not the boss. The slightly more intellectual."

Without making a sound—or at least trying to—the two Nordics backtracked deeper into the forest. When they were out at a good range, they began looping around the clearing in order to head south. Or at least they thought it was south.

"Are you sure we can't go back to that cabin?" said Mathias. "I'm really, _really_ hungry. So hungry that I might faint. And we can't go anywhere with a fainted me."

"Don't be such a drama queen. You'll live, Dane."

"But—but—but—"

A high pitched whine sped past their heads and landed in a tree opposite to them. It was followed by another arrow sailing through the air.

"What the—?" Lukas said. "She found us?!"

"Shit, this is so not good!"

"I KNOW YOU'RE THERE!" came the woman's shout. "THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE FROM ME, HM? I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW I'M THE BEST TRACKER IN THIS AREA!"

"Like the only tracker!" Mathias shouted back.

Lukas kicked him in the shin. "Shut the hell up! I swear, you are the most senseless fool I've ever met!"

"YOU WILL PAY FOR THOSE WORDS, TREACHEROUS FIEND!"

Another arrow flew past them, this time much closer than before.

Mathias drew his axe. "Okay, we've got a crazy lady out to kill us. She thinks we're here for some malicious intent, but that's totally not it. Looks like we have to stand and fight. Ready, Nor?"

Lukas was running the opposite direction.

"NOR!"

An arrow suddenly appeared in his line of vision—Mathias barely found the time to chop it in half with his axe. He turned tail and ran too.

"COME BACK HERE, YOU SCOUNDRELS! FACE ME LIKE THE MEN YOU ARE!"

_Does she have some kind of quarrel with males? I swear I haven't done anything!_

Another arrow nicked him by the sleeve and caught him against a tree. He was stuck. After struggling for a brief while, he decided _To hell with it._

Mathias undid his overcoat quickly—as quickly as one hand could go—and shrugged it off of him. He continued running. He would have to go back later and get it back.

He was desperately searching for any signs of Lukas, but the Norwegian seemed to have literally vanished out of thin air. Maybe that crazy woman finally got to him.

_No, Matt. You must . . . think . . . positive . . . THOUGHTS. Nor doesn't die that easily. After all, he was a Viking once upon a time. Hehe . . . We're so screwed._

Denmark whirled around and planted himself firmly in his place. An arrow scraped him across the cheek and flew off into the distance. He was stunned; that was _way_ too close for comfort.

"Please!" he shouted. "I give. Please don't hurt us!"

"SO YOU SURRENDER?!"

"Yes, yes!" he screeched. "I surrender. We surrender! Just don't shoot us anymore!"

There was an interval of calm. Mathias released a sigh of relief, thinking the battle was over.

And then Lukas barrelled into him, hurling him off his feet and propelling the both of them into thick underbrush—just in time for a fucking throwing knife to pierce the area where they were just standing seconds before.

"I SAID I FLIPPIN' SURRENDERED!" Mathias roared.

"YOU SAID TO NOT SHOOT YOU ANYMORE. AND I DID NOT SHOOT YOU!"

"God—_freaking_—dammit I did not see that coming."

Lukas untangled himself from Mathias and held up his hand. A glowing, green haze formed in the palm of his hand.

"What are you thinking, bro? You going to blast her? We can't hit girls!"

"That's right." Lukas stood. "But no one said anything about shooting girls with spells."

"I don't care, man. I just want her off our back! She freaks me out!"

"Don't think she's pretty anymore, now, do you?"

Mathias shook his head frantically.

"Well, then."

Lukas stepped out into the open. "Shoot us or harm us in any way one more time, and I'll blast you off your feet."

"HA! YOU CANNOT SEE ME. HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY HOPE TO HIT ME?"

"The same way you seem to be able to target us." Lukas fixed his palm into the snow. "_Magic._"

The green orb melted into the snow and shot forward like a laser beam, exposing the earth beneath and creating a pathway to where the woman was standing. It zigzagged around trees and bushes, finally coming to a rest just north-east of them.

"Found you."

Mathias was thunderstruck. He struggled to his feet and stared off in the direction the magic dictated.

The blonde woman materialized exactly where the pathway was made. Her bow was lowered and unstrung, thankfully. She appeared cautious with every movement she made.

"Best tracker, huh?" said Lukas. "You were only cheating."

The woman smirked. "No, I am still the best tracker. I only cheated in knowing where to shoot."

Mathias hid behind his brother, but since Lukas was shorter, it looked kind of funny. "W-what do you want with us?"

"You trespassed on my land. Something like that cannot be forgiven," she said.

"Something like that only mattered centuries ago," Lukas retorted. "We meant no mal-intent. We only wanted to pass through peacefully."

"Then tell me why you are here."

Lukas lowered his eyes to the snow-ridden floor. "Truthfully . . . we're trying to find our brothers."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Your brothers."

"Yes. They've gone missing for three weeks. We were hoping to explore the territory and find them, but there have been no signs. We apologize for walking in on your land. If you permit it, we will leave immediately."

"Well." The woman rolled her shoulders back, releasing the built-up tension. "If it's a place to stay for the night, I would gladly have you over at my house. What do you say? It's mighty cold out here, and my cabin's nice and warm. You two can leave the following morning to continue your search."

"Excuse me?" Mathias stepped out from behind his brother. "Correct me if I'm wrong . . . but you tried to kill us back there."

The huntress batted her hand dismissively. "Oh, I was just trying to scare you. I could have killed you anytime I wanted to—but I didn't. You two provided me with fun sport, something I haven't had in a while."

"That's twisted," said Lukas.

"Say what you will."

"I _told_ you she could've done it anytime," Mathias said. "But _noo_. You didn't listen to me."

"Shut up, Dane. I don't see how that could've made _any_ difference."

The blonde woman coughed.

The Nordics stared at her for a few seconds, and then brought themselves into a huddle.

"Think we can trust her?" whispered Mathias.

"What other choice do we have?" said Lukas. "She can shoot us dead right here. And it's not like we can survive another day on our own, without food."

"So we're going with her."

"Looks like it."

"Okay."

They straightened.

"We'll . . . take you on your offer," said Mathias in his best rich bastard voice. "But any wrong move and . . . and Lukas here will burn you with his epic magic skillz."

The woman appeared amused instead of intimidated. "Magic, you say. Tell me—how is it you know how to do magic?"

"That's a really long story," said Lukas, already regretting exposing his powers. "It seems you are also of the magical sort."

"That I am. But it's limited."

"How come?"

It was her turn to peer at the ground. "That . . . is a _really_ long story. I'd rather not go into detail."

Lukas didn't find it strange in the least. After all, since he was able to perform magic, that meant the majority of his people could, meaning there was a good possibility that this blonde woman here was only one of his citizens that decided to live a life of solitude.

"Shall we get going then?" asked the woman, gesturing behind her.

"Most definitely," said Lukas.

"Just one thing, though," said Mathias, shivering violently. "C-c-can I have my coat b-back?"

The woman blinked several times. "Your coat? I think you should be worried about your cheek. We should get that looked at before the hypothermia sets in."

"Hy-hy-hy-po-the-thermia?"

"Yes. Open cuts expose the blood, letting heat escape quicker. Sorry about that, by the way."

"N-n-n-n-no. We're c-c-c-cool."

Lukas eyed his brother with concern. "Cool? Try freezing cold. Your blood crystallized."

Damn. He hadn't noticed.


	5. V: Concerns

Gilbert bounded up the stairs two steps at a time and flew into the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he hollered, pointing at Roderich. "Who let you in my house, Prissypants?!"

"I believe it's my house," said Ludwig, in the process of mashing his potatoes. "Sit down and eat in a civilized manner, Gilbert. _Please_."

Gilbert slid into his seat at the table and overlooked his food. "Who else is here?"

"I invited Elizabeta and Lili."

"Still no sign of Vash?"

"We've tried searching for him," said Roderich, dicing some olives. "It seems like he's literally vanished off the face of the earth. Two weeks earlier we checked in with his superior, but he hasn't made it back yet."

"If he's not in Switzerland, then where could he be?"

"That's the mystery. None of the other missing nations have turned up either. The strange part of it all is that no one else has seen any of the missing."

Gilbert stirred his soup. "This doesn't sit right with me."

Gilbird bristled uneasily on top of his head, chirping erratically.

"Call it intuition," Gilbert continued. "I feel like we're dealing with something other than the Frost Men."

"What else could there be?" asked Ludwig. "The Frost Men are bad enough. We don't need to deal with another potential race that wants to eradicate us."

"Remember that their seemingly sole mission is to wipe us out," Gilbert reminded him. "They only want to kill us, and since none of us feel as if Vash is dead, that means he's still alive. But why keep him alive at all, then?"

"You're saying there's another entity," said Roderich.

"I'm saying it's a possibility."

"It could be that it's another tactic to draw us out, get us alone," Ludwig proposed. "Most of the searches have been personal and concealed from the rest of the nations. They may very well be looking for the next opportunity to strike."

"I doubt it," spoke Roderich. "It's been relatively peaceful. No recent sightings reported. After the battle at the hotel, their numbers must have dwindled enough for them to call a temporary retreat. Since then, there have been no further signs of their presence, not even a corpse. Which is probably a good thing for the authorities cleaning up after us."

"Hey, has Romano woken up yet?" Gilbert asked.

"Last I heard, no."

Gilbert pounded the table. "That is so not awesome. We can't afford to wait anymore. We need those schematics."

"I know how you feel, _bruder_, but Feliciano has tried—the mafia won't let him access the blueprints. It doesn't matter if they know who he is; they have sworn to answer to no one but Lovino. Even though Feliciano is a part of the mafia, they only respond to Lovino's passcode, which he doesn't even share with his twin brother. For obvious reasons."

"Yeah, if Feli spilled the passcode to the Allies back then, you would've been screwed. Good thing he didn't know, huh?"

"We were screwed anyway," Ludwig muttered, but hardly anyone heard him.

"Yes, now eat up," said Roderich impatiently. "We all have a big day ahead of us. Now that Vash is gone and Lili has lost the motivation to go to work, someone needs to help run their offices."

Gilbert groaned. "I was hoping to practice drumming today."

"You drum too much," Ludwig chided. "After you're done, _bruder_, I have some of Feliciano's paperwork for you."

"What?! B-b-but have you seen the size of the thing!"

"Sure I have. Look, I just want you out of my house. Is that so much to ask?"

From all the way upstairs, Elizabeta leaned her elbow on the windowsill as she was forced to listen to the boys' banter downstairs. The pipelines made the stupid Prussian ape's voice all the more obnoxiously louder than the normal, which was only slightly less obnoxious—but still obnoxious. Is the word obnoxious starting to sound weird to you?

"Lili, you're being too quiet. Is something the matter?"

Liechtenstein sat in an opposite armchair, stitching up one of her brother's shirts. She hummed an unidentifiable tune under her breath as she worked.

"Nothing's wrong," she spoke softly. "I'm worried, that's all."

"I know the household is a bit noisy," Elizabeta said. "Maybe you want to spend some time at Katyusha's place? Or perhaps with the Baltics?"

Lili shook her head. "I'm grateful of the company, really."

Elizabeta's feminine instincts were tingling. She could tell Lili was holding in more than she was saying. "You can talk to me, Lili. I won't speak of it to the others. I promise."

Lili drew in a deep breath and released it. She placed her sewing needle down in her lap and stared out the window.

"I know what Mister Gilbert and the others are saying downstairs. They think that something else has taken _bruder_, right?"

Elizabeta laughed shakily. "Don't listen to that nonsense. Gilbert is an idiot."

"So why do I find myself believing every word he says?"

"Uh, that is . . ." Elizabeta sighed. "Lili, don't think too much about it. Vash will turn up sooner or later—you'll see."

"I want to believe that, but he only agreed to help because I bade him to. He fought for my sake. If it hadn't been for me—"

"You can't be thinking that this is _your_ fault." Elizabeta straightened. "Lili," she said in a condescending tone. "I know how hopeless you must be feeling, but honestly—you don't need to blame yourself for his disappearance."

"Then who am I supposed to blame?" Lili said, her voice rising. She held in her anxiety for this long; she couldn't stop herself from pouring out all her frustration. "The Frost Men? There's no proof that they've taken him! His own selfless actions? Foolish, maybe! Or perhaps I have to blame it on the person to who placed him at the front lines!"

She flinched back. The whole room had gone silent. Even the chatter from downstairs died down. Lili's eyes widened, watching as Elizabeta's expression changed from surprise, to dejection.

"This is what you've been holding in for three weeks?" the Hungarian mumbled. "Lili, I'm so sorry. I should have known. I hadn't even considered that the formation would have its holes. Maybe the match-up was all wrong. We did lose him and three other Nordics. It's really been my fault all along, hasn't it?"

"No! No, that's not it at all, Miss Elizabeta. I shouldn't have blurted that out. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I just—"

"It's fine." Elizabeta closed her eyes. "I get it. You're frustrated. We all are. The only thing we can do is sit around and hope for the best. But that isn't enough, is it?"

"No. I want to do more than this," Lili admitted. "Until now, I've relied on _bruder_ for everything. He's protected me, he's fought for me, he's done so much for me! I want to repay the courtesy. I want to find him. Maybe now just isn't the time for that."

Elizabeta scooted forward and grasped the girl's hands. "_Now_ is a perfect opportunity as any. I'm going to help you, Lili. I promise."

Lili understood the situation she was in. There was absolutely no way she could search for her brother on her own. Despite wanting to for once at least accomplish something by herself, she needed all the help she could get. Elizabeta was willing.

"Thank you, Miss."

"_Ahem_. Am I . . . interrupting a tender moment?" Gilbert stood in the doorway like a champion. "Need a minute to gather your petty feelings?"

Elizabeta glared. "Get out."

"Come on, bro. It's my house."

"My house!" Ludwig yelled from all the way downstairs.

"Like I said," Gilbert repeated, slightly bit more forcefully. "_My_ house."

"Like _I _said." Elizabeta stood and shoved him backward. "_Get out._"

"Oh, you wanna play that way? Fine. You'll see how awesome I really am!"

"Bring it on!"

"Was there something you wanted, Mister Gilbert?" said Lili.

Both Hungary and Prussia momentarily ceased their squabble.

"I just wanted to inform you two that we're going to work," said Gilbert, in his best businessman impression. "So . . . see you later."

"Work?" Elizabeta raised a skeptic eyebrow. "Really. You. Going to work."

"Yes, why do you not believe me?"

"Because I don't."

"Also, there's been—"

There was a high pinging noise. Gilbert drew out his cell and checked the message.

"That's not good," he said. "There's been a load of seismic activity off the East Asia coast. Japan isn't handling it so well. China is trying to help, but he's getting affected too."

"That sounds like a common occurrence."

"It is. But with everything else going on, I doubt they appreciate the interruption."

"That, I have to agree on."

"Anyways, see you two later. Roderich is ready to burst a blood vessel, I swear."

Gilbert disappeared down the stairs. Afterwards a decisive click could be heard. The large house was plunged into silence. Lili continued to hum away in the background, its eerie melody floating amongst the distilled air.

* * *

_It wasn't until a century later had Feliciano realized what really happened that day._

_"Grandpa isn't coming home, is he?"_

_Lovino shouldered the truth all these years on his own. The weight felt so unbearably heavy on his shoulders. Now he felt like he could finally let it go._

_"No. He isn't."_

_"What are we going to do, fratello? I'm scared that we'll be invaded again."_

_"Then we let them. Our survival is the only thing that matters. I promised Grandpa that we'd live, for his sake."_

_"Ve . . . I can't believe he just left us."_

_Lovino slid an arm around his brother's shoulder. "It's okay. He told me that everyone has their time. I suppose his just came a little too soon."_

_And so began the Italian Wars, a series of conflicts that lasted for more than a hundred years and involved more than a dozen separate states and countries. Near the end of the Renaissance Era, it was proclaimed that North Italy would be brought under the custody of the Holy Roman Empire, and South Italy would go to Spain._

The year was 1559.

_Feliciano was generally happy with his new occupation, even if it meant serving under another—he was grateful he even had a place to stay. HRE was kind to him, if not a little arbitrary, and he paid him back with the chores he did around the house. But although he appeared cheerful, one would often find the little Italian off in the fields with a crestfallen expression on his face._

_Lovino was a different story. With the surfacing of a new guardian figure, his abandonment issues became more prominent. With Spain going away to war every other day, and with that creep France and the Ottoman Empire wanting him every other week, things tended to get hectic. Spain rarely came home, leaving Romano subsequently alone again. The only way he could cope was to be a dick towards Spain._

_Sometimes it worked. Other times . . ._

_Other times he wished that Rome hadn't deserted them. If there hadn't been a choice, he would have preferred to stay with Feliciano. But in the end, he couldn't even have that. In the end, he was more alone than he ever was._

* * *

**Thanks for reading! I'm sorry that these chapters may seem a little random, but with so many perspectives, I can't have one side of the story come right after the last little event, or else there's no room for the other POVs to develop. Hope you understand.**

**And also, it's almost the holidays! YAY! That also means the upcoming exams. Urgh. Better if I don't think about that.**


	6. VI: Somnium

_He only ever sleeps. It's like he's really dead._

Feliciano finished grating the cheese onto his pasta and shuffled to Lovino's room, where the older Italian lay in his coma. Lovino was as pale as a sheet, his chest barely moving. An IV stood next to him, of which he was hooked up to with a needle. A heart monitor beeped soundly next to him.

The signs showed that Lovino was nowhere close to being dead. It was natural for nations to have a slower heartbeat than the average human. These past few weeks the monitor had displayed his health to be stable. Feliciano had virtually nothing to worry about.

That is, until Lovino started moving.

For the first twenty minutes, Feliciano ate his pasta. Then he drew out a book and began reading aloud to Lovino, just like he always did. It became somewhat of a routine a few days ago. Feliciano figured his brother would be lonely if no one was by his side talking to him. It didn't matter if he was unaware.

Truthfully, the only one who felt lonely was Feliciano. Kiku had his own problems to deal with, and Ludwig . . . Ludwig hadn't been himself lately. He didn't know what was going on in the German's head, but Feliciano could tell that he needed some time to himself.

No one else was available either. Antonio wouldn't answer his calls, Big Brother France wasn't even in Europe last he heard, and the others were either out searching for friends/family members or too busy catching up with their work. The World Summit had been left incompleted, after all, and it wasn't as if anyone was willing to go back and resume after what happened.

Lovino was the only one here, present, alive and willing to share his pain. Okay, maybe not _willing_. Lovino had made it clear more than once that he hated their twin perception with every fibre of his being.

"It's such a beautiful day," said Feliciano, smiling. "I wish you could see it, _fratello._ It's hot, but . . . that's how you like things, right? Hot? You should come up north once in a while. I'll show you how to make _angeli_ in the snow. I know you don't like the cold that much, but it's worth it."

Still silence answered him.

"My day was okay," Feliciano continued. "Ludwig was a little uptight_—_but when isn't he? I think there may be something wrong with his heart, _fratello_. I could hear it through the phone. So . . . heavy. What do you think I should do? Wait it out? Yeah, maybe you're right. That's how Ludwig is, because he's Ludwig."

Feliciano lay his head down next to Lovino, fighting against fatigue.

"You know, Antonio came by two weeks ago. He stayed here for a few days. He didn't leave your side once. But then he told me one day that his boss was calling him, so he had to leave. What happened that day . . . He doesn't hate you. He has never hated you. And you shouldn't either. It's not good to carry grudges, _fratello_. So forgive him as soon as you can, okay? I'm sure whatever he's doing right now, he's thinking of you."

He was having trouble keeping his eyes open and his attention focused on the subject. His eyelids drooped until they shut. He wasn't completely asleep when he felt the faintest trace of movement. Then he heard a voice.

Feliciano's eyes snapped open. He sat up, staring at his brother's face in bewilderment.

". . . not him too. I . . . won't let you . . . _Non andare! Ho perso tutti, e ora non posso nemmeno mio fratello. Perche 'non puoi . . . lasciarci in pace? PERCHE SI DEVE LASCIARE IN PACE?!_"

His voice was barely above a breathy whisper, but his actions were nowhere close to the same level of tame. The first thing Feliciano thought to do was calm him down.

"_Fratello_." Feliciano leaned over and placed a hand on Lovino's forehead. "_Fratello,_ it's me, Feliciano."

Lovino gave no indication that he heard his brother. He just continued to mutter to himself, flailing from side-to-side as his apparent nightmare consumed him. It took all of Feliciano's power to keep his brother pinned down as his fit passed.

He couldn't take his eyes off Lovino's expression, which had twisted up in the utmost picture of agony as he was forced to live through some evident trauma. Sweat lined his brow as he went off in another Italian tangent, his voice growing weaker and weaker and every bit more incoherent.

And he slept.

Feliciano loosened his grip off Lovino's wrists and sat back down in his chair.

"_Cosa stai sognando, fratello?_" he said. "If only I knew what was troubling you. I could take those thoughts away and leave you with dreamless sleep."

"_Non lasciarci_ . . ."

Feliciano frowned. _'Don't leave us?'_

"_Ognuno ha il suo tempo . . ._"

That line sounded familiar, but it was the sort of memory buried beneath the farthest reaches of the mind. He didn't bother recalling what it was; he had other things to worry about. He patted Lovino's hand, deciding that it would be all right if he was left alone for a little while.

Feliciano stood, deciding to get that paperwork he'd been neglecting done. But as he sat at his desk, pen poised over a document, he began to ponder his brother's words and what he meant by them.

What, exactly, had he been dreaming about to warrant such a violent reaction? Feliciano internally urged his brother to hurry and wake up.

* * *

_"I'm surprised, Roma! You've actually gotten something done today!"_

_Lovino scowled. "Why so surprised, Tomato Bastard? I can work if I want to."_

_Spain laughed wholeheartedly. "Never doubted you for a second. How about you take the rest of the day off? I received a whole shipment of tomatoes today, and let me just say how beautiful they can make the world seem, despite the wars raging on. You can have some, if you want."_

_"I'm going to bed."_

_"H-huh?"_

_"I'm said I'm going to bed, bastard. Didn't you hear me?"_

_Lovino threw down his broom and marched out of the room. The slamming of a door reverberated through the household. _

_Antonio scratched his head. _What's with him?

_He didn't like seeing his little henchman upset. Antonio tiptoed to his room and knocked on the door._

_"Romaa~! I have churros~!"_

_There was no answer. Antonio risked a peek through the door. He opened it wider. When Lovino didn't stop him, he sat down beside the little Italian on the bed._

_"What's wrong, Roma? You usually wouldn't deny the offer of tomatoes."_

_"Why are you so damn nice to me?" said Romano. "It's annoying."_

_"You don't like people being nice? Well, I could act a little meaner if you want . . . Um, no dessert for a week unless you act happier!"_

_Lovino wasn't fazed. Even Antonio knew his threat was a little pathetic._

_"Seriously, Roma, what's up?"_

_"Why are you so nice to me?"_

_"Huh? Again with the same question?"_

_Lovino studied his boss's wounds and the number of bandages wrapped around his arms and his head. It must have hurt a lot. He was surprised Antonio could still move like he did._

_"All I've ever been is trouble to you. Why haven't you ditched me yet?"_

_"Why would I do that? There's no way I'd leave you, especially now of all times when the other countries are being such douchebags!"_

_It was just like back then. Grandpa Rome was in the same state Spain was right before he died. If Antonio wasn't careful, he'd disappear. And if he disappeared, Lovino would be left all alone. Again. _

I have no one left. Even if Spain is a bastard, he's all I've got. I don't want him gone. Even if it means leaving him, I'll do it. It's because of me he's even involved in a war. I'm can't let what happened with Grandpa happen to him.

_"Don't die on me, bastard."_

_Antonio blinked, his head tilted to the side. "What are you going on about now? Honestly, I'll never understand you. I'm not going anywhere."_

_"Everyone . . . always end up . . . leaving . . ."_

_The Spaniard smiled, offering Lovino his hand. "I'm here now, Roma. I'm not going anywhere. So come on. Don't be sad. I have churros waiting for you."_

_Lovino reluctantly reached to grab hold. "You won't leave me?"_

_"Nope."_

_"You won't trade me away or anything?"_

_"What kind of question is that? You may be on the downside of housekeeping, but there's no way I'd give you up to anyone. You are my Roma, understood? You are not leaving me."_

_A blossom of hope bloomed inside Romano's chest. For so long, he felt like he finally made a decent, worthwhile friend. Compared to the assholes that pretended to be nice just to annex him, Spain was honest and kind. _

_It pissed him off._

_Lovino headbutted Antonio in the stomach. That was how he showed his affection._

* * *

England pulled up to the palace entrance and helped Queen Elizabeth out of the car.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," she said. "Thank you, Arthur."

"No problem, Madam." Arthur shut the doors and locked them. He held an elbow out. "Shall we?"

"Always such a gentleman, aren't you?"

He led her up the steps and into the palace. Immediately an attendant rushed over, asking if they could assist with anything; Arthur waved him off.

"We'll be fine for today, George," he said. "I'll call if we need you."

George nodded and retreated into the back foyer. He noticed a certain fear emanating from the young fellow. Honestly, he'd lived here for years—surely he would have been used to the UK brothers' antics by now?

Arthur asked this of the Queen, but she only laughed.

"It's not your brothers they're afraid of—although Scotland comes close. It's you, Arthur."

"Me? _Me_. You can't be serious."

"Let me explain to you why."

She directed him up the main staircase, a grand elaborate spiral of cream marble. Arthur was confused; wasn't this . . . ?

"You said we were going to meet someone," he said. "So why are we going to my bedroom?"

"I'll have to remind you its state."

"Its state. What? I don't underst—"

The Queen nudged open his door. "The other day, I got a complaint from one of the palace caretakers. She said you were making quite a racket up here. You also swore off anyone that came too close—including my dogs. Now that's not very like you, Arthur."

"Not like me? Elizabeth, I was a pirate first."

"Nevertheless, I thought you quit drinking."

Arthur grew sheepish. "Er, not quite."

"Arthur, you really need to handle that drinking problem of yours."

"I know, I know! It's just—these past few weeks . . ."

The Queen sighed. "I won't get angry, Arthur. You can tell me what's wrong and I'll try to help. You've learned this long ago, haven't you? You need to treasure the family you have left, instead of mulling over those you've lost."

England thought back to all the colonies he'd established over the centuries. Most of them had left him and claimed independence. The rest were in his Commonwealth. It still wasn't the same, though.

America, Canada, India, Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong—to name a few. They all grew up strange under his guidance; Arthur began to think that maybe his parenting skills needed some work. Maybe. He still had pride to uphold, after all.

"Look, I'm not going to start drinking myself to death," Arthur said irritably. "Can we please move on? I don't see any point in this."

Queen Elizabeth noted the number of whiskey bottles scattered about the room. A pirate sword was crudely stabbed into the surface of a mahogany table, of which was very expensive.

"I don't appreciate what you've been doing cooped up here for God-knows-how-long," she said. "I also don't approve of your recent attitude towards your responsibilities."

"Don't assume things," said Arthur, adopting a more assertive role. "You have no idea what the responsibility of a nation is. Don't just suppose things from what you see."

"Perhaps not. But you need to stop this behaviour at once. It's childish."

"Childish? Elizabeth, in my eyes you are the child. I have lived through countless of your lifetimes. Don't think I haven't done something like this before, which I have, and look at me . . . I'm fine."

"If you are not a child, then why do you keep repeating the same mistake over and over again? Losing everyone, fighting with the other nations, always assuming the same habit whenever you're depressed . . . Arthur. Don't ignore me."

"You want to know why?" Arthur stared ahead. "There are days when I wish to go back to that time, to start over again. I am old, Elizabeth. Thinking about the present exhausts me. It reminds me of how long I've lived for. Sometimes I need to let loose."

Oh, she understood that. But even so, there was no need to be this way.

In fact, she walked in on him the other day in a not-so-sober state, which probably explained why he couldn't remember it happened at all.

He was in the middle of singing about rum and plundering the seven seas, a bottle of ale in one hand, and a cigar in the other. She was afraid he'd been taking lessons from Scotland—which hadn't happened for over fifty-years. She smacked him upside the head once his hangover passed, but the day after he was back to drinking.

Once again, probably because he couldn't remember she told him to cease his alcohol consumption in the first place.

"You . . . really miss the open sea, don't you?"

Arthur smiled, but the humour didn't reach his eyes. "More than you know."

"Why don't you spend a day with the navy? I'm sure they would let their nation command a battleship."

"It's not the same. It's not only the feeling of being on water. It's the smell of the salty ocean, the presence of the sea air brushing against your face . . . It's the thrill you get when you face your enemies head-on with only a crew, a sword, and a sailing beauty. No matter how hard I try, I can't go back . . ."

"Why would you want to? Those times have been a dark, dark age in our history."

Arthur muttered something, but the Queen didn't catch it. He probably intended it to be that way.

Elizabeth took one last gander at the state of his room, wanting so much to yell down and get George to clean up the mess. But there were other pressing matters to address. For one, the reason they were at the palace rather than attending the Prime Minister's post-funeral seminar regarding the deceased soldiers.

She heaved a sigh. "Never mind that. We'll deal with this matter once we come back."

"Hm? Where are we headed?"

"To meet her."

"Who?"

"Your mother."

* * *

**Yes, I know. George? That's, like, super random! I chose George because it has a stereotypical butler ring to it. And he probably won't appear anymore, so get over it. And wow, Britannia's alive apparently. Let's see how this plays out.  
**

**Thanks for reading! Until next time! **


	7. VII: Familiarity

Norway and Denmark followed that mysterious woman back to her cabin. It had begun to snow, and the thick snowflakes were piling up quickly.

Mathias shielded his eyes. "Gah! I can't see anything. My coat, where could it be?"

"Why don't you just leave it," demanded Lukas. "I'd rather be back at the cabin before we're trapped in the snowstorm. Besides, you wouldn't last another minute out here."

"Nah." Mathias lifted his foot out of two feet deep snow, no longer shivering, although the frozen crystal that was his blood still stuck to his face. "I'm working up a sweat just getting through the snow."

"I don't think we'll be able to get your coat back today," said the huntress. "When the sky clears up we'll come out here and look for it, when our visions aren't impaired. Sound good?"

"Okay, I guess."

The cabin came into view. It was a mere shadow behind the snow's veil. They missed it once and had to backtrack to relocate their direction. The setting sun didn't help; the skies were dark enough to begin with.

As they approached closer, they noticed the cabin was actually built a few feet off the ground. Stone slabs created the staircase, and the porch was made entirely out of wood. It must have been for the annual snowstorms. If it managed to snow a couple feet, the snow wouldn't gather in front of the door and block the way in/out. No matter the season—the higher north you go, the weather changes from green mornings to frosty nights in a blink of an eye.

The woman unlocked the door and let the boys inside first. Then she disappeared outside awhile before coming back with a bundle of firewood in her arms.

"It's really serious tonight," she said, shaking snow off her boots. "We'll be snowed in for a couple hours. Hopefully by morning it'll warm up. The night is when the temperatures drop enough for snow, despite being August."

Mathias shivered under his blanket. "J-joy. Could you, maybe, get a fire going, now?"

"All right, all right. Calm your horses."

She dumped the wood into the fireplace and gathered some kindle. With some flint and stone, she managed to strike up a flame. She draped a fur pelt over Mathias. When he turned around with a questioning look in his eyes, she smiled and explained that the sooner he got his temperature up, the better.

Lukas sat with her on a wooden bench while she prepared the night's meal.

"So what did you say your names were again?"

"I'm Lukas. That's Mathias."

"Ah, they are strong names. It's what I would name my children."

"You have children?"

"I used to."

"What happened to them?"

The woman smiled sadly and put down her knife. "They grew up."

"Oh. Where . . . are they now?"

"Who knows. I haven't seen them in a long time." Here she chuckled. "And I was really hoping one of these days I'd get to see them again."

"Maybe you will." Lukas rubbed at his hands, suddenly finding them very interesting. "So, er . . . what should we call you?"

"What's that?"

"You have a name, right?"

"Oh, yes. But you can call me Anise. I never go by my other name anymore. Too long. That's what the animals in this forest call me, too."

"Anise? W-wait, did you say _animals_?"

"Do you find that strange? Here I thought you were a magician. The animals can speak, you know—only if you stop and find the time to listen. Listen, and they will speak. Oh, the stories they tell! You should try it one day."

"I don't follow the old ways anymore," said Lukas cautiously.

"Well, I do. You should, too. You'd learn a lot—maybe even find new magical secrets."

Anise placed the sliced meat onto a wooden plate and slid it into an oven located right above the fire. Lukas watched as she rummaged around in a cupboard, drawing out a small basket with first aid supplies.

"Where do you get this stuff from?" he asked.

Anise shrugged. "I make them. I harvest the cotton, and then spin them into bandages. The disinfectant I get from the small town a few kilometres from here. I can only manage three or four trips per year, however."

She knelt down in front of Mathias and cupped his chin in her hand, tilting his face this way and that, studying his cut.

"Not too serious," she concluded. "Now that you're all warmed up, I can clean it."

"Where is this town?" asked Lukas.

"South-east from here, approximately. It's a two-week journey on average—worse in the winter—because of the rough terrain. Otherwise a couple kilometres wouldn't be a problem. Mathias, could you tilt your head to the right a little, please. Thank you."

"Your name is Anise, right?" said Mathias.

"That would be correct."

He looked off to the side, suddenly bashful. "Thank you."

She laughed. "Whatever for, boy?"

"Oh, you know . . ._ this_. We would've been dead if it weren't for you." Mathias frowned. "I suppose we'd also be dead _because_ of you, too . . ."

"Again, I apologize. I wasn't aiming for either of you on purpose. I thought it'd be a nice change. It gets lonely in the forest. The animals are hardly company. You can't exactly strike up a civil conversation with them."

Anise finished up the cleaning and stuck a bandage on Mathias's face. She slapped his cheek for effect.

"You're all done! Excuse me while I prepare some bread and cheese. The meat should be done in a few minutes."

Lukas sat down beside Mathias. "What are the chances, huh?"

"For what?"

"Meeting her, I mean. We just happened to walk onto her land, and she just happened to be in the same place at the same time."

"That means we'll need even more luck to find Tino, Berwald and Emil."

"You're right about that."

"Tino, Berwald and Emil?" Anise came over with a huge platter of food in her hands. "Are these the brothers you're referring to?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." She got a thoughtful look on her face for a split second, but was quickly replaced with a broad grin. She held up a pint of beer. "Anyone up for a drink?"

Mathias's hand flew up. "Oh, oh! Me!"

Lukas slowly placed his head in his hands. "Great. Another alcohol-nut."

"Drinks all around!"

"WOOHOO! BEST NIGHT _EVER!_"

The only thought running through Lukas's mind at that point was:_ I have to deal with TWO Denmarks. Someone please kill me._

* * *

The next morning Lukas woke to the wailing of the winds through a crack in the window. The wooden board was flapping widely. He stood and slam bolted the thing shut.

He accessed his current position.

Yesterday . . . he'd arrived at the blonde woman's cabin with Mathias. He'd learned that her name was Anise. She told him about a town south-east from them, just a few kilometres off. Then the night ended with both she and Mathias getting drunk off their asses while he was unfortunate enough to fall asleep to their drunken ramblings.

Excellent.

So where was Anise? She must've woken up a few minutes before them, seeing as it was still fairly dark outside. Mathias was sound asleep on the rug in front of the fireplace, which was only flickering embers now.

Lukas helped himself to yesterday's leftovers.

Around noon, Anise came back with a new round of kill, as well as Mathias's beloved coat.

"My coat!" He hugged and snuggled it against his cheek. Lukas turned away in disgust. "Thank you! And . . . the sleeve's sewed up!"

"Yes, I thought I'd take the liberty to do it for you."

"Thanks!"

Lukas never would have thought that he'd hear the Dane say 'thank you'—much less twice in a day. Either there was something wrong with him in the head, or this woman truly worked miracles.

"Lukas?"

He looked up to meet her grey eyes. "Yes?"

"Could you come out with me for a second? I need your help with the timber."

"Sure."

What was there to expect? Lukas was grateful for her hospitality. At first he thought her to be a little shady, untrustworthy—but the more he got to know her, the more he began to understand himself. He would do whatever task she asked of him. He owed her that much.

He grabbed his coat and followed her outside to the back of the cabin, where a pile of wood was waiting to be chopped. Lukas threw aside his coat, wondering why he brought it with him.

Along with the sun, the temperature had risen above 25 degrees Celsius and continued to escalate. The snow from yesterday night's storm had already melted, exposing the green grass beneath. Yeah. Weather near the poles was weird.

"You should have asked Mathias," he said to her. "He's handier with an axe."

"I know. That's why I asked you. I need to speak with you, Lukas."

"About what?"

"I had three children originally," she began, bringing the axe down on the stump. "I don't know what happened, but suddenly the family grew. I began adopting more and more kids."

Lukas didn't understand why she was telling him this. It sounded personal, and he figured she was the type to hide such things from people like him—AKA strangers she'd met only a day ago.

"Thing is, you remind me of myself," she continued.

"Me?" Lukas had been thinking the same—he saw a bit of himself in her. It must have been true there was a part of her she found in him, as well. "But you seem a lot more like Mathias to me."

"Perhaps, but . . ." She sighed. "How about this? You and I have cold hearts that refuse to waver. Utmost determination. Never second guessing. Always moving forward. For this reason, we do not give off any signs of emotion." She stretched up the corners of his mouth. "See? You should smile more, Lukas."

He had the oddest feeling of being babied. He slapped her hands away in irritation.

Anise returned back to chopping wood. "I don't know if you trust me enough to tell me who you really are. And not _just_ you, Lukas. Mathias too. And your brothers."

"What are you talking about?" he said.

Anise nodded. "It's understandable if you don't trust me. But that's fine. Even if you don't trust me completely, I trust you. You are my sons, after all."

Lukas spaced out at her last sentence. "I'm sorry," he said flatly. "Come again?"

"You are my sons."

Lukas was quiet for a few seconds. "Your sons."

"Yes."

"You mean figuratively speaking?"

"No, I mean literally speaking."

Lukas sat down on a log, just staring ahead of him in a vacant yet intense manner. Anise thought he lapsed into hibernation until he sneezed.

"Maybe we should get inside," she suggested. "The breeze is still pretty chilly—"

"No."

Anise put down her axe and waited, thinking that maybe she shouldn't have revealed the truth after all. She half-expected him to jump up, yell that she was a lunatic, grab Mathias and get the hell away. Lukas hadn't budged yet; he just . . . glared at the trees.

"You knew all this time," he said.

"Well, yes—"

"And you didn't bother telling us."

"No, because I thought—"

"Maybe if you _told_ us, we wouldn't be so hesitant to trust you. Now look where it got us. I'm less inclined to trust you more than ever."

Anise lowered her head. "Lukas, I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to know about my existence."

"And why is that? Scandinavia still exists, doesn't it?"

She couldn't tell if he was angry. Looking at herself, she decided he was. Lukas got angry the same way she did—on the outside the face gave off no emotion, only deadly calm. On the inside, one could literally feel the rage boiling deep beneath, ready to erupt any second.

"It's complicated," she said. "It doesn't work like the way you think it does."

"Try me."

"How about we bring this inside to Mathias? I think he'd want to hear it too."

"Don't try to avoid the subject, _mor_."

"You are Norway, aren't you?" asked Anise hopefully. "Who is Mathias?"

"Denmark."

Anise smiled. "It's been such a long time, indeed. I remember when you were only little, tiny nations. I loved you with all my heart."

Mathias emerged from behind the corner. "So why did you leave us?"

"W-wha . . . ? You heard everything?"

Mathias nodded slightly, unashamed of his eavesdropping. "You're Scandinavia, right? I can tell because you get embarrassed like how Finnie does."

"Finnie?"

"Finland," spoke Lukas. "Tino Väinämöinen."

"Oh, the one Sweden brought home."

"Why is it that I can't remember you?" Mathias said, his head cocked to the side. "I know that I have a mother, but I can't remember your face . . ."

"It's not just you," said Lukas. "I don't remember, either."

Anise searched the faces of her sons. "I have a lot of explaining to do, don't I?"

"Like hell you do."

"Better get started, I suppose. Let's go indoors for this. If I get to finish saying my story, I'll tell you where your brothers are."

Mathias perked up. "You know where they are?"

Anise nodded gravely. "I can tell you where to find them, but _how_ to find them is an entirely different matter. Hopefully by then, we're not too late to save them."

Lukas didn't move. "You . . ." he muttered. "You left us all alone. You were alive this whole time, and you didn't even—" He shook his head. "I'm not letting you go for this."

"Nor, bro, this isn't the time to be holding grudges."

"No, it's fine," said Scandinavia. "Fate has brought you both to me. The Norse gods have given me another chance to prove my worth to you. And I will do all I can to help. Please, Lukas, just this once . . ."

"Make it quick. We only promised to stay one night."

* * *

**Here just about ends the Nordic storyline. I still have to get England's done. ****America/Canada's storyline is a bit complicated, because they're literally trapped in a huge dark house while they're being subjected to insane mind games to 'reach the end of the maze'. Yep, and America is in danger, and Canada gets be the Hero. Wow. I think you all know what I'm going to name _that_ chapter.**

**Right, and thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome and appreciated. I'm starting to think about lumping two chapters into one, because this thing will have billions of chapters if I don't. That means more content for you folks, haha.**


	8. VIII: Awakening

"Mother? What are you talking about?"

Queen Elizabeth resumed their voyage down the hall, away from England's room. "You only have one mother, Arthur. Who do you think I'm talking about?"

He turned to face her slowly. "Bri . . . tannia?"

"The one and only."

Arthur caught up to her. "B-but—how? I've always assumed she's gone, disappeared, _dead_. How can she still be alive after all this time?"

"That's what I'd like to know as well. I was going to ask you that, but you're just as ignorant as I am."

"You know where she is?"

"That's correct."

"You talk as if she's still alive, even though you're not sure she is."

"I'm not a hundred percent certain, but there is a great possibility. She's been living among the citizens, Arthur. And you've never known until now."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Arthur's voice was accusing.

"The same reason why I can't tell anyone else about you being our nation personification: because you're not supposed to know. Your mother made me swear not to tell you her whereabouts, as did my grandfather, and his ancestors. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before, but after what transpired at the hotel, I feel you might as well speak to her."

A thought crossed Arthur's mind. "But if she's living among the citizens, she can't be in this palace. So why are we here?"

"A letter, in her old bedroom chambers."

"What about it?"

"It speaks of her whereabouts."

"The old quarters had been torn down and sealed off."

"Not her bedroom. A secret passageway may be accessed. The letter will tell you where she is. It's a last letter addressed to her heirs—meaning you, Scotland, Wales and Ireland . . . _both_ of them, mind you."

This was all too much to take in for England. He leaned against the wall for support. "All this time, she— She left us all alone."

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "She never said goodbye?"

"No, she just disappeared one day, without a word. And now I learn she's alive. I have to tell Scott and the others."

"Not until you see the letter. Come, Arthur. Only you can open the door."

* * *

A blinding white light invaded his vision, wiping his most recent dream away. Shame, it was the only dream worth living through that actually held a pleasant memory.

"_You are my Roma, understood? You are not leaving me._"

Antonio's face scattered into the void. Lovino scrunched his eyes tighter, wishing for the darkness again.

_Am I finally dying? It's about damn time._

No . . . it wasn't the light he saw. His eyes were still closed, after all. So what was this?

He wrinkled his nose. At least, he thought he was wrinkling it. The action permitted a second reflex. He sniffed the air. The smell of pasta wafted about his head, making his mouth water.

Hold on.

He could smell.

He could taste.

He could _move_.

He could consciously _think_.

The stupid dreams were gone.

Lovino's eyes snapped open. Blinding light shone in his eyes, causing him to involuntarily shield his face with his arm. He noticed how heavy it felt just doing that simple action. He tested his arms. Actually, every part of him felt numb and heavy, like he hadn't used his muscles in centuries.

He blinked the stars out of his vision. His eyes slowly adjusted to the lighting. He began to take in his surroundings.

The large window accompanied most of the wall to the right of him, with no curtains whatsoever. Figures why he'd been mercilessly assaulted by light. The rest of the room was rather dull and bare.

Secondly, it was about midday, judging by the height of the sun.

Thirdly, he'd been right about the presence of pasta. The smell had been real.

Fourthly, that meant he wasn't dead.

Fifthly . . . strange rubber things dangled from his arm, propelling some kind of fluid into his body. And then he realized they were _attached to him._

Lovino spazzed out. He tore the needles and tubes out of his arms, sat up, scanned the room wildly, and came to the conclusion that he was safe. For now.

A flashing glint caught his eye, and he stared into the mirror opposite to him. It took him a few seconds to make sure what he saw was real. Lovino died a little on the inside.

What in the holy fuck was he _wearing_?

Feliciano chose that moment to walk into the room with a plate of pasta in his hands, a book tucked underneath his arm. He froze at the sight of his brother, alive and awake, fully aware, and scowling just a bit—Feliciano nearly dropped his load.

Lovino glanced in his direction, eyes squinted. He titled his head to the side as if debating what he was seeing.

Feliciano was equally stupefied. His jaw was slack, his shoulders tense, and a weird jumping sound emanated from his throat.

Slowly, the corners of his mouth pulled into a smile. Then a grin. Then a straight out beam of sunshine.

Italy Veneziano dashed forward, put the pasta aside, pelted himself onto the bed, and threw himself into Lovino's stunned arms (which didn't bother to move because he was still partially paralyzed).

"_Fratello!_"

The sound . . . It was happy, Lovino realized. Those words held so much hardships and suffering, as well as happiness. Feliciano sniffled into his brother's shoulder.

"You're alive, _fratello_!"

_Well, of course I am,_ he mentally scoffed.

However, on the outside, he said nothing. He was still too confused and exhausted to come up with a proper answer, especially one that Feliciano was expecting.

_Sorry to disappoint._

But Feliciano didn't seem to care. He was rattling his motor-mouth off at top-notch speed, barely pausing to take a breath.

". . . and it's been so lonely, _fratello_, no one bothers to pick up and earlier you were having seizures, but I wasn't sure what to do about that, and—"

He felt so out of it. So _lost_. Like he lived through a good portion of his life without having any memory of it happening. In a daze, he spoke before he could stop himself.

"I remember . . ."

"_Ve_?"

Lovino elaborated hoarsely, "I heard your voice, Feli. I don't really remember what you said, but you sounded so sad."

Feliciano didn't say a word. He just stared. "You must be thirsty, _fratello_," he said, after a pause. "I'll get you some water."

He got up to leave, but Lovino caught his arm in a limp grip. He looked up with cloudy eyes. "Where are we?"

"You don't recognize this house, _fratello_? We're in our vacation villa outside of the city. I thought the countryside would be a quieter place for you to rest."

"Why aren't you with the Potato Freak?"

"Well, I had to stay to take care of you, and no one else was going to do it—"

"So you say." Lovino dropped Feliciano's arm and peered out of the corner of his eyes. His voice rose unsteadily. "Feli, what's the matter?"

Feliciano had a sad look about his face that suggested he was blaming himself for something that happened.

"It's nothing. Ludwig and I had a fight."

Lovino tsk'd, his eyes flashing with heightened awareness he previously lacked. "You honestly can't think it was your fault. It's the bastard's own damned problem. Just leave him to it."

"I feel like it's about me, though! I met him some days after the incident, and he was looking at me all weird-like! It wasn't him, _fratello_! He changed, and I don't . . . I don't know what to do. Do I just leave him to deal with it himself, or should I help him? I don't know!"

Lovino's disgust deepened. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought—"

"I couldn't care less about that Potato Freak. He can come suck my balls."

"_Fratello!_ I'm being serious, here!"

"So am I. If you two had a fight, it's better if you don't think about it. Right? I mean, when Antonio and I fight, I would often make myself believe he's dead. I feel a lot better afterwards."

"I'm not you, _fratello! _I can't hate people just because I can!"

Lovino opened his mouth to retort, but Feliciano stormed out of the room before he could. He sat back with a huff and glared out into the Italian countryside, the hills dotted with green and farmhouses. The occasional villa would pop up, but other than that, civilization was scarce.

He blinked tiredly and wiped his eyes, thinking he was a little too harsh with Feliciano. It was normal for him to wake up cranky and rude. Feliciano knew that.

Or maybe . . . Feliciano had changed too, and he was too blind to notice.

_Dio_, why was he getting so emotional for? It was the damn fact he woke up from a coma; he wasn't thinking straight. Those dream things didn't help, either. What were they? Memories? Nightmares?

He came to a realization that perhaps he was shown those moments for a reason. Anger bubbled from inside him as he remembered the day Grandpa Rome had up and left them. Just like that. Without a goodbye or single statement. He had hurt Veneziano's feelings; Lovino would never forgive him for that.

Feliciano came back into the room with that cup of water he promised, and Lovino had to end his thoughts prematurely.

He downed the cup, feeling rejuvenated. "I was beginning to think you cursed my existence and ran away."

"Why would I do that?" asked Feliciano. "You're still weak and vulnerable. Everyone else is busy, and you are my brother. I have no choice."

"Are you doing this out of love or duty? Because you don't have to."

"Both, _fratello_. We promised Grandpa that we'd live, remember?"

Lovino stared into his now-empty cup. "I'd forgotten about that," he said in a quiet voice. "I only remember the personal promise I made with him. That was to make sure you survived, Feli. And here you are. I'd be happy if I died back there, knowing that you were still okay."

"Don't say that, _fratello._ There would be lots of people missing you if you died."

"Really? Like who."

"Well, Spain, Belgium, even Netherlands, Luxembourg—Big Brother France too!"

"He doesn't count, because he's a perverted rapist. And Spain . . . He probably hates me."

"No way! He cares about you!"

"Nah." Lovino turned his head towards the window. "He most definitely hates my guts. After the hateful things I've said to him, I wouldn't be surprised if he never wants to see my face again."

"You're being too hard on yourself, _fratello_. I'm sure if you asked him—"

"So what's that bastard doing now?"

"Huh? Oh, you know, repairing his apartment. He's got priceless tomes to recover and furniture to replace. It'll take a while." Feliciano caught on to what he was doing. "Wha—? Hey! Don't go changing the subject!"

"In conclusion," said Lovino, "there aren't many people that will miss me. Your point is invalid."

"Don't smart-mouth me! You're still forgetting the most important person in your life that will miss you!"

"Oh yeah? Do tell."

"_Me!_" Feliciano said vehemently.

Lovino leaned backward. He forgot about that. But he couldn't help it! He'd woken up from a God-knows-how-long sleep—his brain was still slow. Guiltily, he muttered an apology.

But something still bugged him.

"Feli, how long have I been asleep?"

"Um, three weeks. It's August the fifth today."

That got him started. Lovino threw the covers off of him and ran around the room several times, trying to get a bearing.

"Oh, God," he mumbled. "Oh, God. What the hell? How could I have been sleeping for _that_ long?!"

He rounded on the mirror and studied his reflection. He resembled a train wreck. No. _Worse_. A friggin' drug addict.

His hair stuck up at odd angles, bags were still prominent under his eyes, and his vision was blurry, making himself look all the more messed up. There was only one thing that stuck out, though. That grotesque pattern of fuchsia staring back at him.

"The fuck am I wearing."

Feliciano watched his brother freak out, never moving a muscle. He figured that it was fortunate Lovino even had the energy—it was funny to watch, but it also showed how lively Lovino was, having risen from a coma only recently.

"Oh, those? Antonio was here a week ago and bought them for you. Aren't they nice?"

"Nice? It looks I went frolicking through fields of girly flowers and the English bastard's embroidery basket. This is for fucking _girls._"

"_Ve~ _I think it looks cute on you~"

"I'm going to ignore that comment. Please tell me Spain wasn't the one to undress me."

"He undressed you when you were small, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but I've learned to grow a pair of balls since then."

". . . You're not going to like my answer, _fratello_."

"I'm going to kill that Tomato Bastard."

Feliciano tugged on his brother's arm. "Come on, just leave it. I bet you're hungry. Let's go to the café and get some breakfast, _si_? Wouldn't that be nice?"

"Fine, but get me my damn clothes. And my matchsticks. I'm going to incinerate this abomination."

"Aww, Antonio would be hurt if you did that."

Lovino protested. "I—uh—I—but—" He slouched. "Just get me my clothes, dammit."

"'Kay!"

Feliciano floundered around into the next room and came back with a pair of khaki pants and a white linen shirt.

Lovino stared at it. "This is the best you can do?"

"It's the neighbour's."

"Why can't I wear yours? We're the same size!"

"You're frail, _fratello_. Better if you wear something light."

"You're making fun of me."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Give me that."

Lovino tore the clothes away from his hands and shut the door. A minute later he reemerged with the plate of pasta Feliciano brought in—now empty—with the fork stuck in his mouth like a toothpick.

"Wow," said Feliciano. "You were hungrier than I thought."

"What? It wasn't like you were going to eat it." He noticed the laptop bag in Feliciano's hands. "What's that for?"

"There's something we need to discuss. We can take this and I'll show you."

Lovino raised his eyebrows but didn't object.

"Right, and—" Feliciano summoned a haircomb and began to tame Lovino's unruly hair. "We can't have you going out looking like a hairy monster, can we?"

Lovino slapped Feliciano's hands away. "Watch the curl, dammit!"

Feliciano laughed and threw the comb onto the coach. "We're done—let's go."

They descended down the stairs and out the front door. Lovino paused on the porch, having thought up another question that might help him catch up to the times. Feliciano was in the process of locking the doors.

"Hey . . . what happened while I was unconscious?"

Feliciano jiggled the key around in the lock, trying unsuccessfully to free it. "You need to be more specific, _fratello_."

"The missing nations and all that, what the others are doing . . . If any of the civilians have begun to suspect yet."

"I'll show you once we order some food. It's why we're going there, anyway. I'd figure you'd ask something like that eventually."

Lovino shielded his eyes against the bright noon sun. He squinted, trying to null the burn in his cornea, but it was ineffective.

"Why does it feel like I'm experiencing a hangover?"

Feliciano tossed him a pair of sunglasses. "You haven't seen the sunlight in ages. It'll take a while for your eyes to readapt to the light."

He started the car and pulled the roofing back. The Italians clambered in.

"Where are we headed?"

Feliciano changed the gear. "_Giovanni's_. The place where everything started."

* * *

**Oh no. Italy's driving. Everybody run for your lives.  
**

**On a more serious note, the Italian storyline is sort of long, so I want to get a good portion of it over with before I move on to the more intense parts. A lot to come, including England's meeting with Britannia! I bet you all know by now who these "friends" are, located in the summary.**

_**Giovanni's**_** is LITERALLY the place where everything started. In the prologue of _The Other Side Of Us_, Italy, Germany, Romano and Japan are seated at a cafe. That same cafe is where they're going now, and although it's partially unimportant, it will be the location that begins a whole new plot twist. **

**Lastly, MERRY CHRISTMAS! If you live after the Greenwich Meridian, also MERRY CHRISTMAS! Happy Holidays to the lot of you and a Merry New Year! :D**


	9. IX: Mementos

Buckingham Palace was filled with never-ending twists and turns. England got tired of seeing the same tapestry over and over again. At least, he thought it was the same.

Thing was, he didn't live in the palace all the time. He had his own house in the London suburbs, which was why he didn't know the palace's layout that well.

The only reason he had his own house was to get away from his brothers. If they suddenly up and left, he'd move back into the palace. But being drunk had its different circumstances. Arthur didn't give a two shits about their existence when he drank.

He felt like a total child saying it, but he asked.

"Are we there yet?"

Keep in mind Queen Elizabeth II was in her eighties. She didn't exactly move _fast_. And since Arthur had no clue where he was going, he had no choice but to keep down with her pace._  
_

"Aren't you impatient," she said. "Time flies by quickly for you, Arthur. Surely this isn't much."

"Yes, but wouldn't you take the first chance you got to talk with your mother, even if it was only for a brief moment?"

"Of course."

"Then you understand my anxiety."

"There's a difference between you and I, dear. I know my mother is dead and that she cannot come back. But your mother is very much alive. Even with magic, one cannot tilt the world off-balance by bringing back the dead. It simply cannot be done."

"It can. People just don't try."

"And have you tried?"

Arthur was silent. Either he didn't hear her or chose to ignore her altogether. It didn't make much of a different to the Queen.

When they crossed the tapestry hall, Elizabeth marched up to the mantelpiece and felt around inside . . . for something odd that Arthur couldn't fathom.

"You don't have to go poking in that dusty thing, Your Majesty," he said. "I'll take over for you, if you'd allow it."

"Don't be silly. You wouldn't know what you'd be searching for."

Arthur scowled. She was right.

"Ah! Here we go."

The Queen tugged on a hidden lever on the inside and a deafening grinding sound echoed through the hall. England flinched at the ferocity; the whole palace had to have heard that.

The backing of the fireplace slid sideways to reveal a passageway to the other side of the hall.

Arthur stood back to marvel the sight.

"I always came here as a child," said Elizabeth. "I loved exploring the palace. I used to play there all the time. I stumbled upon her bedroom by accident. It had been sealed over with wallpaper, but my clumsy self tripped and fell into it. The paper ripped away to reveal a door."

"How did you manage to find the lever in the fireplace to begin with?"

"The existence of the hall was told to me by the cook. He's the same one that informed me about the letter, as well."

"Is there really something on the other side?"

"Yes. It's old, but . . . it's hers."

Arthur crawled through the opening. God, he felt foolish. This was the sort of thing children did. Elizabeth crawled through after him.

"Careful, Your Majesty."

He helped her to her feet. Elizabeth dusted off her skirt. "Thank you. Sorry, I'm not as young as I used to be."

Arthur laughed, something he hadn't done in a while. "You always say that! You're not going to get younger by stating . . . it . . ."

He trailed off as he took in his surroundings.

A strange foreign, yet familiar, scent drifted in the air. Arthur inhaled sharply, savouring the smell—_her_ smell. This was definitely Britannia's. He hadn't experienced it in a thousand years, but it was her. The sea, the forest, the fresh crisp of the northern mountains . . . Arthur forced himself to focus on something other than the smell.

The hallway looked just like the extension of the hall on the other side of the mantel. Except this side's wallpaper was faded and peeling. The ground tiles were cracked and withering. Mould moved in around the corners and windows, dust drifting visibly in the hazy light.

Elizabeth had been right. There existed a whole 'nother world on the other side of the palace, and he never knew.

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

Arthur nodded numbly, walking up to an old painting and tracing the portrait outline with his finger. He examined the objects perched on a nearby shelf and picked up an old rag doll.

"Is this yours?" he asked Elizabeth.

She shook her head. "It was there the first time I came here. I don't know whose it was."

He replaced the doll back on the shelf and moved on. He came by a glimmering emerald ring and twirled it around his fingers.

"What _are_ these things?" he wondered. "Mementos? If so, why are they here, and to whom do they belong?"

"I'm pretty sure they moved everything out when they remodeled the hallway and sealed this section off," said Elizabeth.

Arthur chewed on his nail. "Then that means someone has been here post-construction." He turned to face the Queen. "And you say you haven't moved or touched a thing in here?"

"They were already here when I was a child, yes. They seemed like special objects, so I left them as they were."

"Someone has definitely been in here, then. A child?" Arthur returned the ring to its spot. "A ghost? Or perhaps . . ." He left that inquiry dangling in the air to induce a more dramatic effect.

"You and I are the only people who know of this location. The cook that informed me of this passed away a decade ago."

"And how did he come to know this, I wonder?"

"Arthur, honestly, I don't know. Stop asking such ominous questions. You're starting to scare me."

"Elizabeth, tell me. This was once all one hallway, correct?"

"Yes. They built the mantelpiece right in the way and added the walls around."

"So if this section really has been sealed off, then what about her bedroom? Surely there's yet another door awaiting us. And if we do open it, what will we find?"

England picked up a toy soldier and turned it around in his hands. Queen Elizabeth grabbed it and placed it back on the shelf. There was no point in getting distracted now. They had come this far.

"I cannot answer that. I've never been able to open it because of my limited knowledge. The riddle has boggled me for all my life I've been in here."

"The riddle?"

"'In times of chaos, peace is born.' I still don't understand it, even now . . . There's a good chance you wouldn't be able to open it either. But you're our only hope, Arthur. You need to try."

"Is the door sealed by magic?"

"Most likely."

"In times of chaos, peace is born," Arthur repeated, more to himself. "Understanding is created through merely clashing swords. I knew that line was familiar, but back at the hotel I couldn't quite place it. Now I think I understand. Whatever's behind that door, letter or otherwise, Mother never wanted anyone to find it. She didn't want anyone knowing about its existence. She had been buying time waiting for the right person all these years, and to those that failed the qualifications . . . "

Arthur picked up the old rag doll again. He sent a little magic into the object, and a pleading cry filled his thoughts: _Help me! Help me! It's so dark, I'm scared. Where's my mummy? I want to go home, please—_

The young girl's voice was so terrified and lonely. Arthur hadn't noticed the force of his grip on the doll until an unseen force sent a jolt through his body, causing his awareness to snap back into reality. The girl's cries died into silence once more.

Arthur hissed and dropped the doll. A heavy weight crushed down on his heart; he wiped away tears he unwillingly let fall.

"This is what happens to those who try," he choked out. "Elizabeth, promise me you won't ever touch that door. No matter what—"

She only ever read the riddle; she had never lain a hand on it. And now she knew that she wasn't going to try. If she did, the magic would turn her into an object to be stored forever on a crumbling shelf.

"I promise."

Arthur picked up the abandoned doll and gently placed it back on the shelf, smoothing down its wrinkled dress. He wiped away at more stray tears, berating himself for not being able to do something about all these poor people.

"There's nothing you can do. They are doomed to be frozen in time, unable to become who they once were before the spell."

"I can try to reverse it, destroy the spell on the door. Maybe it'll—"

"Arthur." Elizabeth's face was pained. "You know you can't."

He knew that. God, he knew all that! And yet, he wanted so much to do _something_!

"It's time to get a move on. Let's hurry and reach the door, yes?"

He forced himself to face away from the mementos. "Yes."

Whatever Britannia had been hiding—it had better be worth it to risk the lives of innocent people. Arthur vowed that one day, he will rewrite the spell on the door and change everyone back to their human forms. They didn't deserve an eternity of suffering, much less until the objects degraded themselves. He was going to save them. He didn't care if it'd take two days or two years to accomplish it. These people had suffered for decades if not centuries. Just leaving them as they were broke his heart.

Elizabeth led him into a large sitting room. Like the rest of the wing, the furniture was in tatters, the curtains had holes in them, casting strange beams of light around the room, and the carpeting was faded so much that the colourful patterns it once sported were no longer distinguishable. On the far left stood a single lone door.

"What is it, Arthur?"

England peered at the door strangely. "There are . . . runes," he murmured. "I can see them floating around it."

"What do they mean?"

"Not sure . . ."

Arthur stepped up to the door and felt around the edges. The actual door was made out of normal wood. It was only the magical force field in front of it that prevented anyone from entering.

Elizabeth asked if he could dispel it. Truthfully, he didn't know.

"Where did you see the riddle?" he said.

She pointed to a frame hanging on the wall to the right of the door. Arthur tapped the painting and around it to see if there were any hollowed spaces.

"Does the palace know where you are, Elizabeth?"

"No. I only told them I would be overseeing the funeral."

"But you're not at the seminar. If you're not there, and not at the palace, then someone would soon suspect and come looking for us. We better hurry this up."

Arthur waved a hand; bright flaming letters bloomed on the picture frame, written in Old English.

"_In times of chaos, peace is born,_" he recited in the same tongue.

Underneath, the words _For my children_ burned onto the surface.

The picture frame swung open. Inside was a bejewelled dagger, encrusted with silver and gold. Arthur drew it out and examined it. It was about a foot long from blade tip to hilt, and the words _chaos_ and _pax_ were inscribed on either face of the blade.

Elizabeth reached out to touch it, but an electric force zapped her, causing a spark of light to ignite from a dome-shaped shield around the dagger.

"Careful, Elizabeth," warned Arthur. "You don't know what other kinds of incantations she put on this."

"So now what? You have the dagger. Does it open the door?"

Arthur waved the dagger in front of the floating runes, but nothing happened. He actually drew his own runes with the dagger, trying to counter-jinx the existing ones, but that didn't work either. It only served to create a discharge of magical energy that nearly blew him off his feet.

Without doing anything to the dagger, and holding it to the door, Arthur realized that the force field allowed it through, and nothing else. If he could somehow break through the force field completely . . .

_In times of chaos, peace is born. You can begin to understand your opponent through merely clashing swords. It takes bloodshed and war to come to a decision, and one starts to feel more whole next to the world._

Britannia always said that to her children. She always said those words whenever they fought. She said that fighting amongst the family drew each other closer. Arthur didn't understand how that was possible. If nothing, he and his brothers hated each other more after that.

But Britannia treasured family more than anything else. She loved her children dearly. She always spoke about the eternal bond they had, and that their blood linked their life forces together—

Wait.

Family. Bloodshed. Conflict. Bonds.

"'In times of chaos, peace is born.'" Arthur looked up. "That's it! That's the key!"

Elizabeth looked partly intrigued. "Care to enlighten me, Arthur?"

England felt more like a child at the moment than all the millennia he'd been alive. He was _excited_.

"Family was the most important thing to her," he explained quickly. "She made it so that only her family members would be able to open the door. It was either me, Scotland, Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland, or Wales. Even today, we treasure the tie of bonds, specifically _blood_. The Royal Family is proof of that."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that the door needs her blood in order to open. And since she's not here, I'm the closest thing that comes to that."

At that moment, everything clicked into place. "You mean the solution to the riddle is _sacrifice_?! Arthur, no. Absolutely not, you are not spilling your own blood for this—"

"Relax," said Arthur, batting a hand dismissively. "It's only a small amount."

She wasn't sure she should let him do this, but before she could stop him, Arthur slashed the dagger across his hand. He gripped his ruined hand in a tight fist as he measured the amount of blood on the dagger.

"This should be good," he concluded.

"Are you mad?! Don't go hurting yourself the first opportunity that presents it! Arthur, stop being so reckless and start _thinking!_"

"This isn't something you think about, Your Majesty. I've known this. Mother planted this idea into my head ages ago. All I'm doing now is acting on it."

A small voice interrupted their conversation, looping around their heads. Elizabeth peered upwards but saw nothing. Arthur thought it was one of those objects again, calling out for help, but he quickly realized it was only Flying Mint Bunny.

"What are you doing here?" he wondered aloud. "Where are your fairy friends, hm? You shouldn't be here."

"Don't do this, England!" said Flying Mint Bunny. "Don't do it!"

"Why not?"

"You're not supposed to know, sir! You're not going to like what you'll find!"

"Have you seen the state of the world? This is a good time as any to start knowing."

"But sir!"

"No, Minny. For the last time, _no_."

England waved a hand and Flying Mint Bunny disappeared in a cloud of green smoke. He shook his head. His magical friends could be quite silly at times. Surely they would understand that it was imperative of him to know what his mother's letter read?

"Hurry it up, Arthur. You're getting blood on an antique carpet that can't afford to be dry-cleaned."

Arthur wrapped his handkerchief around his bleeding hand and stepped before the rune door. He gripped the dagger hilt with both hands and held it to the centre rune in the middle of six others.

And then he drove it into the force field. The dimly lit room augmented to the intensity of a supernova. England faded into the light, and the last thing Elizabeth experienced was the shattering of the runes and the sound of glass exploding.

The light vanished abruptly, and the door appeared as it was before. Elizabeth touched the wood tentatively and found no runes. The door was also unlocked. The room on the other side was bare and lifeless. No letter, even though it once had been there.

England was nowhere to be seen.

Elizabeth looked toward the only light in the room. A blood red rose lay on the windowsill.

* * *

**Nooooooooooooooo! What happened to England? Anyone have a theory? Let me know what you think!  
**

** Also, next chapter we reintroduce the North American bros storyline. And it's emotional.  
**

**Thank you for reading!** **_Adieu~_**


	10. X: SOS

**So much feels.**

* * *

**Ottawa, Canada**

Matthew Williams stepped outside as work finally ended for the day. The sun was merely a circle of glowing light in the fiery sky. His boss, Mr. Stephen Harper, told him to go home early.

Kumasaki was dragging him to the ice-cream parlour. The bear ate nearly everything, except things that were clearly not edible—like arsenic. Or maybe . . .

"Kuma, why don't we go home and I'll make you something?" said Matthew. "I'm really tired."

The polar bear cast a doubtful look in his direction. "Ice-cream."

"I'm serious, Kumasushi! I don't feel very well today, like something is coming . . . I've got this strange feeling in my gut that tells me—"

Just then, France flew out of nowhere and tackled Matthew into a hug.

_Oh,_ he thought. _Must have been Papa. Maybe it's just my imagination?_

"Papa, what are you doing here?"

Francis rubbed his cheek against Matthew's affectionately. "Well, ever since _Angleterre_ returned to London, he's been all moody and snappy. He told me to 'get the fuck out of his backyard', can you believe that?! And so, I decided to fly over to visit my favourite _fils!_"

Matthew's face wasn't amused. "Is that the only reason?"

"But of course!"

"Can you let go of me now? It's getting hot."

Francis stepped back as Matthew shrugged off his blazer. He noticed how irritated the young Canadian seemed, more so than usual. It couldn't have been the hot weather alone that was causing this change in attitude.

"So, _Mathieu._ How has _Québec_ been doing? He's not causing you too much trouble, is he?"

"No, he's been fine. Still protesting, but that's how he usually is, I suppose."

"Then I have taught him well!"

Matthew didn't laugh, which was something he usually did when Francis attempted to lighten the mood or tell a joke. There was seriously something wrong with Matthew here.

"Papa." Canada's eyes had a dark lilt to them. "Why are you really here?"

That caught him off guard. France relinquished his flippant attitude and wiped his face wearily. "It's difficult to explain, _Mathieu._ I nearly lost you once, I'm not going to lose you again. I simply want to be here to protect you."

"Is this about the _Traité de Paris_?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Back there, at the hotel, you almost died. I could never live with myself if that came true. 1763 was no different. It was difficult to give you up to _Angleterre_, but it was all I could do to preserve your identity, or else another war would escalate, and you could really die the second time."

"Let's not think about that, Papa. We've got a job to do now, don't we?"

France smiled. "Yes, we do. I'm glad you understand."

Kumajirou tugged impatiently on Matthew's pant leg. "_Ice-cream!_"

Matthew laughed. "All right, all right. We'll get you the ice-cream."

At the ice-cream parlour, the ice-cream man graciously served the frozen dessert to Kumajirou. It had been some years since he'd worked here, and the idea of a polar bear eating ice-cream became second nature to him. The man, Matthew Williams, was a strange fellow, but after a while of watching the polar bear stroll into the Parliament Building with him, it became a regular sight.

The same couldn't be said for the tourists. They stood by and took many pictures. Kumajirou gladly posed for them. Matthew ran inside quickly before his face could be seen. Not that anybody would care to notice him.

Matthew was just about to hand the ice-cream man the payment when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID: _Alfred F. Jones THE HERO_

"Uh . . ."

"It's all right," said Francis, drawing out his wallet. "I'll pay."

Matthew stepped to the side and pressed the cell to his ear: "Hello, Alfred? Why are you calling me? Shouldn't you be at work?"

There was only static at the end.

"Hello? Alfred, are you there?" Matthew grew impatient. "Look, Al, if this is another one of your prank calls, I'm telling you—it's not going to work. I have caller ID, remember?"

". . . _Ma—Mattie! Don't—_"

"Alfred? What is it? I can't hear you; speak up!"

"_N-no! Please! Not him . . ._"

Matthew's heart jumped in his throat. That voice . . . was not his brother. The Alfred he knew didn't sound like that. The Alfred he knew spoke loudly, obnoxiously and proudly. The United States of America would never be caught in the act of—

"Alfred!" Matthew hissed. "Alfred, tell me what's going on! Tell me why you're . . ."

Sobbing. America was crying.

Matthew pressed the receiver closer to his ear. Again, there was static. He sank down in a park bench, awaiting the next group of words, his blood pounding in his ears.

_Shut up, heart. I can't hear if you being so loud!_

The phone crackled.

"_P-please, no. Don't . . . don't make me d-do this. Not to him. N-not to my brother!_"

A garble of alien voices followed.

"_I WON'T!_"

Ah. That sounded a lot like his old self: defiant, rebellious. Matthew shifted to the edge of the bench seat. He dared to speak.

"Alfred?" he said. "Alfred, speak to me. Tell me what's going on. What's happening to you?"

There was a bone-chilling crack. Then a scream. Matthew jumped a foot in the air. A faint throbbing emanated from his lower abdomen.

Alfred's voice shook: "_M-Mattie . . . listen to m-me. There's a flight at 8:15 to New York City. T-take that plane. A-also_—" He choked up. "_No . . . I'm not listening to you. There's n-no way I'm— Mattie's my brother! I-I'm not listening to you bastards!_"

His shout of defiance was followed by a bang. Matthew shut his eyes as Alfred screamed again.

"S-stop it, Al!" he pleaded, clutching at his side painfully. "Stop it! Whoever they are, just listen to them! Don't make yourself go through this . . ."

There wasn't an answer, only silence. Francis came over with Kumajirou sitting on his shoulders, wondering what all the commotion was. Matthew was about to tell him, and then Alfred's pained voice drowned out his words.

"_Mattie?_"

Matthew gripped his knee. "Al, what is it?"

"_Come alone._"

* * *

He wanted nothing more than to sink into his own little world and appear invisible to everyone else. For once, he _wanted_ to be ignored. He _wanted_ to seem like nothing.

Just so he could cease this stupid feeling.

France set Kumajirou down and laid a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Maybe it's another prank call. How can you be sure that it's—?"

"I don't know!" Matthew snapped. "I don't . . . I don't know, okay? Alfred never sounds like that. But it's him. I know it is!"

"Okay. Say that it is him. What are you going to do?"

"I have to comply with the wishes of whoever is holding him, or else they'll hurt him again. What other choice do I have? They're torturing him, Papa. I can _feel_ it. It needs to stop, or Al will—" _Or he will die._ "I have to go alone, do you understand that?"

Francis shook his head. "No. No, _Mathieu_. You can't. Not alone. I'm coming with you."

Matthew shot up from the bench. "Absolutely not! Whatever's happening with Alfred—I can't let it happen to anyone else, especially you. You mustn't, Francis! If they take you, and hold you hostage—"

Francis grabbed Matthew and shook his shoulders. "Calm down! You don't know what they want yet. Let's just think through this calmly, _oui_?"

"I don't have time," insisted Matthew, hoping Francis would understand. "The plane leaves at 8:15."

"Why the airport plane? Why not your private jet? _Mathieu_, don't you think this is all a bit too strange? Think about this. If it really was your brother—"

"It is!" Matthew all but shouted. "It's him! I can't explain it, but it's Alfred!"

He turned away from Francis, hoping the Frenchman couldn't see his expression. The last thing Alfred said to him before he hung up . . .

_"Mattie, please help me."_

And Matthew had gripped the phone so hard, he nearly crushed it. Alfred's tone stated finality, but _he_, Matthew, didn't want to hang up. He needed to keep Alfred talking. He feared that if the call ended, so would Alfred's life.

_"I will. Wait for me." _

"I'm going," declared Matthew. "End of discussion."

Kumajirou glanced at Francis and then dashed right after his owner. A silent plea flitted in the polar bear's beady eyes; Francis knew what he had to do.

* * *

The wait to board the plane was killing him. The whole time Matthew felt like he was being watched.

_This is probably why they told you take a public plane,_ he thought, his eyes darting around rapidly. _They want to make sure you're coming. They want to make sure you're obedient and came alone. I guess my feeling earlier hadn't been my imagination.  
_

"You probably don't count as a person, right, Kuma?" he said to his polar bear.

Kumajirou growled.

Canada smiled, despite what was happening at the present moment. "Thanks, Kuma. I'm glad I have you with me."

A voice echoed through the building. The 8:15 flight to NYC was boarding passengers. Matthew stood from his chair and headed over to the counter to get his ticket stamped.

In the loading tunnel, he shivered involuntarily and glanced out the window. He swore he saw a pale figure dart under the plane wing. Was that just his imagination again?

This was getting really, really creepy. He was starting to get an idea of what was holding Alfred hostage.

_They're back._

Matthew swallowed the lump in his throat and headed into the plane to take his seat. The plane was only half full, so he drew out his phone, trying to see if calling Alfred again would do any good.

No good. He wasn't answering. There was a blank dial tone in the place of Alfred's boisterous voice.

After take-off and during high-altitude travel, Matthew got the all-clear to leave his seat. He headed to the bathroom. It was small, cramped, but at least the mirror gave him a vague idea of his mental state.

_I'm not losing Alfred. I can lose my identity and my country. But not Alfred._

His phone rang. He jumped and banged his elbow against the bathroom door. A passenger on the outside screamed at him to quiet down in there.

Matthew stared at the phone screen.

"Alfred?" he spoke tentatively. "Alfred, are you all right?"

Heavy panting responded.

"_I've . . . m-managed to get away, but they'll f-find me again. Mattie, l-listen, okay? M-Mattie, you need to get away. F-forget about me. You need to __run._"

"What are you talking about, Alfred?" he replied desperately. "I can't leave you all alone there."

"_You don't understand!_" America shouted. Then he lowered his voice again. "_It's not me they want. W-what they really c-came here for. The Frost Men w-want to destroy . . ._" A pause. "_I can hear them. Listen, Mattie, t__hey want you—_"

Alfred's voice cut off as a crash sounded in the background. Next he spoke, his words sounded far away:

"_They're here. Mattie, I'm t-telling you: don't come here. Whatever they're making me say, ignore it. It's all a part of their plan_." Alfred laughed shakily. "_Consider this a last request from the Hero. Mattie, promise me something._"

Matthew wiped at his eyes. "Wh-what is it?"

"_When this is all over, remember me._"_  
_

The call ended. Matthew knew that if the line continued, he would have heard Alfred's scream again. He was glad he didn't.

The Canadian lowered the phone to the sink and hung his head. How strange . . . hearing Alfred say words reserved for him. He, Matthew, was the one constantly forgotten and here _Alfred_ was afraid of being forgotten? Crazy idiot.

Why did this have to happen? Why to Alfred? Alfred wasn't even a legitimate target. Sure he killed all those Frost Men via sniping, but there was no accurate way to pinpoint the killer if the victim had no time to broadcast who did it.

And what did the Frost Men want to destroy? Destroy _what_?

He couldn't run. Not when he'd come this far.

_I'm sorry, Alfred. I can't fulfill your wish this time._

It was a short flight to New York. The plane was already descending. The pilot instructed all passengers to return to their seats and click in their seat belts. Matthew left the bathroom, avoiding elbows and running children. The skyline of NYC greeted him.

He _hated_ it.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Let's hope Canada gets to America in time...**

**All right, I can only ever write an airport scene this time because I've actually been to a Canadian airport, so I know what it's like. Because I live here.**

**On a happier note, HAPPY NEW YEAR! :D**

**Chapter 10 - milestone chapter! Thanks to all those who favourited, reviewed and read this story. Let's hope we keep going for ten more and maybe another ten! Here's to another year. Cheers~  
**


	11. XI: Lost and Found

**Sigh. Last day of the bloody holidays. You feel me, North America.**

* * *

The descent, the challenge of leaving the claustrophobic plane, the journey heading outside the airport and hailing a taxi, and the trip from the crowded streets of NYC to Alfred's house—it nearly drove Matthew into hysteria.

During that time, he never heard from Alfred once.

Matthew prayed it wouldn't be too late.

After paying the taxi driver and telling him to keep the change, Matthew ran up the pavement to the gates guarding Alfred's front lawn. Instead of unlocking the gate like a normal person, Matthew hopped over the fence impatiently and went ahead to knock on the door. Not that he expected anyone to answer.

The door was unlocked. Matthew pushed through. Someone grabbed him from behind and forced him to spin around.

"Think about it before you go in there," said Francis. "_Mathieu_, do you know what you're getting yourself into?"

"Papa, I told you to stay in Ottawa!" Matthew hissed. "It's not safe for you. They told me to come alone!"

"You're not doing this alone. I know what it feels like to lose a sibling. I _know_ the lonesomeness that comes as a result of it. Trust me; you do not want to be by yourself in that house."

"I'm not a child anymore, Papa. I can handle myself."

"Maybe so, but—"

"_Maudit tabarnac!_" Matthew exploded. "Do you not understand this predicament?! This is not an arguing matter!"

Francis ignored the insult and chose instead to reassure Canada. "I do, _Mathieu_, believe me. I'm worried about you, as any parent should be. If England won't do it, I may as well."

_He doesn't need to be so understanding, especially after I called him such an ugly name. _Matthew lowered his gaze to the ground. "Fly back to Europe. You have your own government to tend to."

Francis scoffed. "Hardly. It can run itself without me."

"What about Prussia? Or Spain? Don't you think you ought to help them out?"

"They don't need my help. Their problems are something they need to resolve on their own." France drew in a breath and let out it. "Listen, Matthew. Yes, you're not a child anymore. That means you know how to put aside your pride when you have a problem and let others help, _oui?_"

Matthew seemed to be having an internal quarrel over himself. Should he allow Francis to come inside with him, or force him to stay outside?

"How did you get here?" he asked instead.

"I took your private jet. I don't understand why you had to take an airplane, but perhaps they want to keep an eye on you. They probably don't know I'm here."

Matthew wanted nothing more than to yell at Francis to return and leave the business of Alfred to him. He had a feeling it wouldn't be convincing; something to do with his quiet voice, he suspected.

No matter how much Matthew was against it, he was grateful that Francis came along, even if it was orchestrated by a certain polar bear. To save Alfred, he needed all the support he could get.

"Are you finally going to let me come with you?" asked Francis.

Matthew locked eyes with the Frenchman and propped open the door with his foot. "After you."

Francis stepped forward and pressed a firearm to the Canadian's hand. Upon Matthew's questioning gaze, he explained that it was better to be safe, than sorry. It had been quite easy to obtain, too; you could find gun stores all over the place if you just cared to look.

"It's not that, Papa," Matthew whispered. "I'm not so sure that a gun would even work against them. I doubt it matters if we have something to protect ourselves with."

"We're not even sure if it's really them yet."

"Who else could it be? Who else is strong enough to hold _America_ down?"

Good point.

Matthew stored the gun behind his belt and marched inside. Francis was just about to follow when the door slammed shut between them.

Canada turned around, his eyes wide. The aftershock of the slam echoed inside the empty house, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The sun had all but disappeared, casting strange shadows that formed frightening shapes in his peripherals.

"Fr . . . Francis?"

_Click._ The door locked. _Slam._ Metal grates slid down in front of the windows. _Bang._ Someone was pounding on the door.

"_Mathieu! Mathieu, qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_ Are you all right?!"

Matthew took a few seconds to calm down before regaining his voice. "Francis!" he cried, pulling at the knob. "I don't know what happened, but I—I think they know you're here! They locked the door . . ."

The knob rattled. Francis swore. "Stay there, _Mathieu!_ I'll get a locksmith! Just hold on a moment!"

"No," said Matthew. "No! I don't think that will do any good!"

"What?"

Red laser lights trained on the door. Matthew didn't know where they came from, but it must have been Alfred's paranoid security system coming to light. Were the Frost Men _this_ intelligent? So much so that they could figure out how to guide lasers?

Matthew backed away from the lasers until he hit the main stairwell. "Papa, get away from the door!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Get away!" Matthew screamed, his voice cracking. "I need to ask a favour of you. Do you have your laptop with you?"

"Yes, but why? _Mathieu,_ why does it sound like—"

"Get it and hack into Alfred's security network. I need you to find the layout of his house."

"Wait, what are you doing?!"

Matthew spun around and faced the vast expanse of the mansion. He took a deep breath. Just what _could_ he do?

"To find him," he mouthed, barely audible.

"Matthew, wait!"

"If I wait anymore, Alfred will die. I'm not letting that happen. I can't."

"Please tell me you have a plan!"

No, he didn't.

"_Mathieu_, don't go running off without knowing what it is you're doing!"

He wasn't listening. Matthew trailed further on into the house. He didn't know where Alfred was, he didn't know where he was heading, but one thing he was certain of.

If he didn't hurry and move, then the Frost Men locked in the house with him would find him and wouldn't hesitate to deal a finishing blow. He just needed to save Alfred before that happened.

* * *

**Rome, Italy**

The drive to the city was on average 45 minutes. Italy got there in 20.

"You've been unusually silent, _fratello_."

South Italy blinked lazily behind his sunglasses, their driving speed not fazing him the slightest. "What's there to talk about?"

"I don't know. Anything. Are you mad at me?"

The question caught him off-guard. Lovino gave Feliciano a strange look. "Mad? Pft. What are you going on about now?"

"You have your PMS face on. I just thought—"

"I'm not PMSing." Lovino sunk lower into his seat. "It's nothing. I'm not mad at you. Forget it."

"Is it about Antonio?"

"No."

"Does it have something to do with your dreams?"

Lovino didn't answer.

"Is it someone in those dreams you're angry at?"

"What are you, my psychiatrist? Shut up already."

Feliciano pouted. "You never tell me anything, _fratello_. I won't judge you or think you're crazy, I promise."

"I'm not crazy," Lovino muttered, more to convince himself almost, but Feliciano couldn't hear his words because the wind smothered most of it.

He decided to leave it at that until they arrived at _Giovanni's_.

The rest of the ride was uneventful. Feliciano parked the car across the street from the cafe. Avoiding oncoming traffic, they quickly headed inside the diner before the police caught up to them.

Well, no one said there _were_ police pursuing them, but being Italian, one had to assume everything.

"I'll order something," said Feliciano, handing over his laptop. "You find seats for us."

Rome was scorching hot that afternoon. The inside was crowded with people trying to get away from the heat, where there was air conditioning. Lovino ended up heading out and reserving the side tables. At least they had an awning.

The sun wasn't even the primary problem. It was the heat itself. Not even a breeze was present.

_It was different that day_, he remembered. _We sat exactly outside, right here._ _The weather was nice, even with the Potato Bastard nagging at us every second._ His expression soured as he recalled a detestable memory. _Well, until Antonio's attack happened. _

Lovino turned on the laptop and watched as the desktop loaded. Immediately a browser window popped up, where Feliciano had saved a news report on NBC. The heading read: **Mysterious fires at World Summit hotel, sources explain the situation**

"This can't be good," he commented mildly.

"Luckily the CIA has it covered," said Feliciano. He held two cups of frozen ice capps in his hands.

"The fuck did you give me caffeine for?" said Lovino. "I need real food, Feli."

"It's coming, _fratello_. Just bear with me."

Lovino sipped his ice capp. "At least you didn't order coffee."

"I don't think that would do any good in this weather."

When their meals came via the waiter, Italy explained the situation to his brother. In Latin.

"They're blaming the fires on a gas explosion caused by faulty wiring and a leak in the furnace containers." This wasn't too far from the truth as he and Canada had cut and welded various wires together for the transmitter. "The whole world is pitching in by helping cover up the evidence. The regular government has no say in sending in investigators. Only secret services are allowed in, of whom are directly employed by their respective nation."

"What about the citizens?"

"They don't suspect a thing. Although there aren't any corpses to determine if anyone died, the Frost Men's remains still linger—which isn't a bad thing. If it were different circumstances, then yes. Their strange alabaster bodies mix in well with the building's rubble. The officials are using this story to lie to media outlets. They're buying everything."

A loud, smooth voice interrupted their conversation, which carried from all the way across the street. The Italian brothers huddled closer in order to hear each other. The later and later the day progressed, the more lively the streets became. If the guy just quieted his flirting, they could continue.

". . . And no one died in the fire?" asked Lovino. "As in, nation-wise?"

"No. Like I said, no remains have been found."

"Feli, nations don't leave any trace when they disappear."

Feliciano nodded sadly. "Let's assume everyone's alive, _fratello_. Yes, most nations are still missing, but their family members are searching for them as we speak. No one has turned up, however, and no one has seen any of the missing."

"What about the schematics? I don't remember salvaging them . . ."

"We didn't. The schematics are gone and so is the transmitter we dumped. They burned in the fire. I distinctively remember you have more than one copy, though."

Lovino nodded, thinking hard about something. "I do, but it would be hard to obtain."

"We need those, _fratello_. The whole world has been waiting for you to wake up so we can go ahead with the transmitter project. America has been producing the materials needed."

"I'm sorry I didn't give authority over to you, Feli. I should have. Then we wouldn't have had to wait for me to give the confirmation on the schematics release."

Feliciano laughed. "No, no, that's fine. You probably didn't have time to do it, with the condition you were in. I'd rather you have full authority over the mafia than me. It's not something I would call my . . . forte."

Lovino stirred his soup, not feeling so hungry anymore. "Have there been any other recent attacks?"

"Other than the hotel incident? No. Not that I've heard of. It's been quite peaceful, but our present condition doesn't bode well with me. We can only have peace for so long before another war breaks out—"

"A penny for the poor~?"

The same voice from earlier floated closer. Apparently he had been rejected. Now he was singing a folksong bursting of explicit content, with the same level of volume he used to flirt. Lovino felt his irritation escalate. He wanted to turn around and tell the damn troubadour to shut up. He even considered throwing in a penny to get him to stop. A penny in the face.

"As I was saying," continued Feliciano, "their silence feels like they're only gathering the strength to strike. And I fear it will be the last strike they'll ever make."

"It makes me wonder what they're doing right now," ventured Lovino. "If they're sitting in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to attack us . . . or if they're waiting for something much, much bigger to happen."

"At any rate, the truth is quite safe," said Feliciano, hoping to steer the conversation away from the topic of total global annihilation. "Using a nation personification's personal authority, we can lie about what happened entirely. Besides, if anyone else were to bypass security and worm their way into the hotel, they'd find no other evidence to suggest otherwise, because the fire has destroyed everything."

"At least that's one worry off our backs."

Feliciano beamed. "_Si._"

His smile was contagious. Lovino cracked a small one of his own, mirroring his twin's, but tried to hide it by drinking his cappuccino.

(Don't get any ideas. He wasn't going to start _ve_'ing anytime soon, so quit your begging.)

"The only thing we can do right now is be on high alert, I suppose." Feliciano sighed.

The troubadour had stopped singing. He thanked those who contributed and packed up his things. From their peripherals, the brothers could see him approach. He grabbed a chair from their table, spun it around, and sat with his guitar lying over their food.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation~" he said in the same language. "Just thought to point out I could help~"

"Excuse me?" said Lovino. He hadn't noticed the familiar linguistics. "We were eating, you can't just—"

"_Fratello._"

"What?! Look, people can't just come, walk in on your conversation, and fucking be this demented. Do you have any sense of decency, retard?"

"I'm hurt," said the stranger. A large hat obscured his face, but he was grinning. "And here I thought to visit you because, I don't know, you missed me. My, have the both of you grown. I never would have thought my eldest would develop such a foul mouth. My youngest is still as cute as ever, though~!"

"What in the shit are you going on about now?"

"_Fratello._"

"You annoy me," said Lovino. "Why do you annoy me?"

The smile on the stranger's face grew. "Don't tell me you don't remember my lustrous voice~"

"Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you."

"_Fratello!_"

"What?! This guy is being so damn familiar, it's creepy."

"_Fratello,_ don't be rude!"

The stranger removed his large hat, amber eyes sparkling behind a curtain of dark curls. "Do you remember me now, Roma~?"

For a few seconds, there was no reaction. Time slowed down. Both Italy and Romano took in the man's appearance, their faces disbelieving. How long had it been since they'd last seen him? A century passed before they found their voices.

"_G-Grandpa Rome?_"

* * *

**THE ROMAN EMPIRE HAS RETURNED. Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnn . . .  
**

**Also, _maudit tabarnac_ is Canada's subtle way of swearing. I'm not going to translate what it means, but it's very insulting in Québecois. If you really want to know, look it up on Google. They have LOADS of curse words.  
**

**Thanks for reading! This may be the last chapter in a while, because there are assignments and essays to hand in, as well as the need to study for exams. But I will be back. _Adieu~_  
**


	12. XII: Ancient Rome

**Yes, I'm back, sorry for the long wait. Exams are now over and I can get back to doing what I love! We have a whole week off, so there's nothing else to do but write and play piano... Anyway! On with the story!  
**

**Warning: Romano - because the guy has issues. Get ready for the feels.  
**

* * *

"Grandpa, what are _you_ doing here?" said Italy Veneziano, his eyes wide open.

Grandpa Rome grinned idiotically. "What, I can't see my two grandsons?"

"Th-th-that's not the point! You're . . . You're supposed to be—dead!"

Rome frowned. "Well, that wasn't nice."

"He has a point," said Lovino. "Unless some bastard drugged us and we're seeing things. Or, I'm still in my coma, and I'm dreaming all of this. This has _got_ to be a dream if you're here . . ."

"Hold on. You were in a _what_?"

"_Fratello_, that wouldn't make sense. I'm here and I know that I'm not sleeping."

"Boys," said Rome, splaying his hands out. "Come on. It's really me. Can't you tell? Do you not see the magnificence in front of you?"

Commence round two of silence. This practically consisted of the Italies staring at Rome, while the old empire smiled like a fool and displayed his epic (not) beautifully-sculpted-by-the-gods muscles. As a matter of fact, since Rome pretty much lost his entire empire, he slimmed down quite a bit.

Romano's jaw hung open. "You sound like the albino bastard."

Rome leaned forward. "The who? Sorry, my memory's a little fuzzy."

"Grandpa." Tears clung to Feliciano's eyes. "Grandpa, you're really here?"

He didn't care about the logic behind this miracle. He was so happy to see his grandfather again. Feliciano never questioned how this was all true, and he never dared to ask—he feared that just speaking it aloud would wipe his grandpa out of his life again.

Lovino could see how Rome's sudden existence affected his brother. It only reminded him of why this was. Rome had hurt them in the past, and he had hurt Feliciano the most. It was because of him that Feliciano even had a reason to cry now. His protective sibling instincts on overdrive, he instantly loathed whoever dared inflict such suffering on his brother.

"Yes, Ita. I'm here."

Those simple words transported Feliciano back to the past, when he was his young self, sitting in Rome's lap and hearing his stories. He didn't want to let go of that memory. He wanted Rome to stay forever.

"Why the hell are you here?" said Romano, snapping him out of his reverie.

"Eh?"

"I _said_: Why. Are. You. Here."

"Why am I here?" Rome appeared genuinely confused. He looked off to the side for clarification. "Yes, why am I here? Hmm . . ."

"You fucking nutter." Lovino glared at his grandfather. "If you really are who you say you are, then why the fuck did you leave us?"

"Eh?"

Lovino slammed his hand down on the table. "Say that one more time, and I'll—"

Feliciano lay a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down, _fratello_. Let's just hear him out, _si_?"

"Tch."

"Where have you been all this time, Grandpa?" said Feliciano. "If you weren't dead, then when you went to war . . ."

"When I was defeated, I lost my country. But that doesn't necessarily mean I lost my indentity," said Rome. "There's a good reason for that. You see, since you two are alive, so am I. As long as you two continue to exist as Italy, I'll be immortal, as well. When Germania defeated me, there was this moment of complete darkness. I don't know how long it had been when I suddenly woke up in a field and the war was over."

"Please," said Lovino, scoffing. "That shit only happens in fairy tales."

"I'm serious, Roma!" Rome sighed. After a thousand years, clearly not _everything_ had changed. Romano was still the same as back then. "Afterwards, I spent my days singing and entertaining the people. I travelled around the country, learned new culture and met interesting faces."

"And you never thought to visit us once during that time?" questioned Feliciano.

"Well, it's not like I had a choice . . ."

"Huh?"

Rome laughed, batting his hand. "Oh, no! Never mind me! Just an old man and his ramblings!"

That sort of slip-up didn't escape Lovino, though.

"Cut the crap already," he said. "You can't expect to go missing for a thousand fucking years and then show up in the 21st Century and suddenly go, 'Hey, look, guys! I'm actually alive! Let's celebrate.' Fuck no." Lovino pointed into the distance. "If you think we're just going to accept this fucked up shit, you might as well walk back to that field you woke up from and die again."

Rome tilted his head to the side. "Are you holding something against me, Roma?"

"No, because I thought bullshitting you would be fun." Lovino rolled his eyes. "What do _you_ think, moron?"

"And what on earth have a done to you?"

"Oh, you don't know? Let me show you—"

"_Ve, fratello. Questo è sufficiente__._"

Romano ignored his brother's pleas. He towered over Rome, his fists clenched.

"What I want to know," he growled dangerously, "is where the hell you've been when we needed you. If you were alive, why didn't you _fucking show up when we needed you_?!"

Rome blinked. "Roma, this is hardly the place to start something, isn't it? And you look pale. Do you feel all right?"

Lovino's eyebrow twitched. He raised his right hand, still tightly clenched. Veneziano noticed this and immediately moved to do something. He knew his brother, and he knew that if he didn't step in, Lovino would act on violence without a second thought. Feliciano pulled out a white flag and stuck it between them.

"But you'll explain, right?" Feliciano blurted. "You'll tell us why you're here, Grandpa?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure."

Feliciano nodded incentively. "Okay, now, sit down, _fratello_. Let's just listen to what Grandpa has to say, _si_?"

Lovino lowered himself back into his seat. Behind his rage, he hadn't realized he stood up. He sunk lower into his seat as he finally noticed the amount of stares he was attracting. It was already strange that they were speaking in a dead language.

For now, they needed answers. In order to obtain such answers, he had to suck up his contempt and tolerate the urge to punch the bastard's face in. Afterwards, when all would have been said and done, he could proceed to take his pent up anger out on him.

"Grandpa," said Feliciano, "you said you could help us."

"Oh! I did . . . ?"

"Yes. What did you mean by that?"

Rome scratched his cheek obliviously. Then he seemed to remember. "Ah! Do you two remember Pompeii?"

Feliciano looked to Lovino. Lovino didn't respond, although the confusion on his face said it all. Feliciano decided to answer for the both of them.

"What about Pompeii?"

There was a pause as Rome revisited his memory again. "Hm, okay. Right. Pompeii is going to happen again."

Cue silence number three.

"I guess I better explain, huh?"

* * *

**Madrid, Spain**

Antonio unlocked the door to his apartment and hit the showers first. It had been a long day at work, and he needed some time to himself.

Just imagine—he came home from a supernatural alien invasion and his boss immediately expected him to hand in the paperwork by tomorrow morning. Honestly. He nearly died _once_ and his boss wanted him back at work? Nations never had a break and the only thing they were rewarded at the end of the year was Christmas holiday and New Year's celebration with the family.

Other than that, it was work, work, work, all year, ten hours a day.

Ever since the attack on the hotel, no one had been the same. There was a heavy, dark air everyone sported, including him. From dawn to dusk it was running all over the place, trying to get documents sorted out, international relations to strengthen; Antonio never really considered the consequences of what happened that day.

Now he knew. It wasn't only the workload that increased because of the invasion; he had to cover for missing countries. One of which was his brother, Portugal. The only thing he was capable of doing on his own was to help manage Portugal's government. Finding him, however, was an entire matter on its own.

It was a fruitless effort. Other nations have tried. They tried and searched and came up with nothing. In the end the missing stayed missing, and it would be a long time before any of them were found. Spain suggested gathering some resources to find Portugal, but his boss wouldn't hear of it. So he didn't try.

The first time he visited his apartment again, it had been in the same state of disarray as he left it: the furniture destroyed, the bookshelf toppled over, the books ripped and the pots of flowers shattered. The Frost Man he fought had left remains scattered on the carpet as well as some various . . . gooey substances.

He spent the next few days replacing the furniture and the books that had been destroyed. They were ancient, priceless tomes that weren't easily come by, especially in this century.

At least he still had his big chair, which was surprisingly untouched compared to everything else.

Antonio wandered into the room and took a second mental picture of it. Now the room was much cleaner and tidier, though it felt sort of empty. His pirate sword had fallen down.

He replaced it on to the wall, carefully positioning it parallel to his battleaxe from the conquistador days. While doing so, he accidentally knocked down a picture frame, shattering the glass front. He stepped back to avoid the spew of glass and realized which picture frame he destroyed.

"Sorry," he apologized to no one in particular. He flipped the picture frame over and the photo in it slipped out, fluttering to the ground next to his foot.

Usually Romano was often found frowning, but this photo was the evidence of him genuinely smiling. That was the only time in his life that Antonio had successfully gotten him to smile—and then proceeded to take a picture of them both. Lovino didn't smile after that. And Antonio ended up with a concussion.

The picture frame had been weak to begin with. The first time it cracked he didn't replace it. The next time he accidentally stepped on it, breaking the surface further, he didn't replace it. He couldn't bring himself to replace it. It reminded him too much of . . .

He picked away at the glass and lifted the photo up.

Just Lovino's face reminded him of what happened that night in the alleyway. The words they exchanged . . .

He had thoroughly accepted Lovino's fate. He knew there was no turning back. When Lovino had turned out all right and _not_ dead, God chose that moment to take a knife and painfully etch the words into his mind:

_It was me. I nearly killed him._

Spain crumpled up the photo and launched it violently at the wall. Antonio seated himself into the armchair with his head buried in his hands, his gaze harsh as he glared at the floorboards.

In the alleyway, he knew that the truth would hurt him so he subconsciously prepared himself before that happened. If Romano had died, he didn't want to experience the emotional torture that followed it. Anything but that.

So he gave up. He gave up and walked away, and he was so ashamed. So ashamed he couldn't even look at Lovino's face, or stay with him until his last moments. He left, because he was a coward.

_It's not fair. If the Frost Men never showed up, this wouldn't have happened. We never would have had a reason to fight._

It was incredibly immature of him to think like that, but so what? What if it sounded selfish? He'd never gotten the chance to _be_ selfish. Why couldn't he choose to do things for himself instead of towards the good of the world? Shouldn't a nation be given their own freedom of choice once in a while, as any human would have been given the same privilege? Weren't they people, too?

After a while of seething, Antonio sauntered over to the photo and picked it up, smoothing the crinkles over. He held the picture to his chest with a face of absolute turmoil.

Abandoning his feelings may have spared him the emotional torment, but the act had hurt Lovino even more. How was he supposed to face the Italian now? Now when the evidence of his mistake was alive—alive enough to glare in his face?

But there was no way he could hate Lovino. They'd been through so much together.

That one week he spent taking care of Lovino hadn't been for the fact he cared about his well-being. Honestly, he didn't know what it was. The reasons were beyond complicated to put into words.

Antonio didn't know whether it was out of some sense of duty, or just for the sake of Lovino not suing his ass when he did wake up. After all, he pretty much sent the Italian to his death.

But one thing he was certain of: Lovino was someone he cared for, and he wasn't going to abandon his henchman, no matter the reason.

He had to apologize. Lovino was unconsciousness and it wasn't going to be him that apologized first. Antonio tucked the photo into his pocket and grabbed his car keys. It was a long drive to Italy.

Outside, the sun had already set, mirroring the night that they'd discovered him, unconscious and comatose, right in this very living room.

* * *

". . . and that's pretty much it! If we don't stop their next advance, we'll die!"

Feliciano did most of the speechlessness. Lovino just sat with his arms crossed, mentally shouting Catholic curses at Rome.

"Grandpa," said Italy slowly, "how do you know they'll attack again?"

"Because they will."

"Why Pompeii?"

"They did it once already, didn't they? They won't hesitate to do it again. Although, if you factor in their intelligence, they'll probably use the next eruption as a cover for something much bigger."

Lovino finally spoke up, "That's not what Feli meant, bastard. He asked how you _knew_. How is it you can feel this coming when _we're_ the representations of Italy?"

"Pompeii was a part of Rome once," said Ancient Rome. "It's only natural I feel more connected to it than you, _si_?"

"And you're asking us to stop them for some sort of revenge?"

"Truthfully I disappeared because of their interference, not my fight with Germania. I could've handled him if it hadn't been for their intrusion. I will not tolerate them taking Rome a second time. You two must stop them before they do rise again."

"Is that what happened to Ancient Greece?" said Feliciano.

"It happened to Germania, as well. It may sound like a scary thought, but these 'Frost Men' are sad creatures. They've been subjugated to their own insanity for thousands of years—perhaps longer than that. They're every bit as victims as we are."

"So . . . you didn't intentionally leave us?"

"No! Why would you ever think that? Do you really think the mighty _Rome_ could be killed off? I think not! So, Ita, what were the two of you talking about before I interrupted?"

Feliciano showed him the laptop and played back the news video. Ancient Rome tended to sidetrack himself a lot. He forgot facts he mentioned earlier and he became easily distracted by pretty women. Nothing really had changed these millennia. Because of this, Rome never worried about the future or cared about its consequences. He was carefree as he spoke about the world's imminent doom.

This didn't sit right with Lovino. Feliciano was still as oblivious as usual; he was much too absorbed with Rome being alive to care about the truth.

In summary of Rome's explanation, he had decided to visit them _now_ because of an oncoming disaster brought by Mt. Vesuvius, the same volcano that had caused the Pompeii/Herculaneum disaster in 79 AD. The last eruption had been in 1944, but Rome insisted that the next eruption would be on a much deadlier scale.

As well as being marked the most famous eruption in the ancient world, Mt. Vesuvius had been one of the most well-concealed truths in mankind's history: it had all been orchestrated by the Frost Men.

The eruption eventually would lead to Ancient Rome to their downfall, although not technically obvious at that time. In addition to this, a second eruption was imminent and Rome was asking them to stop it.

The question was _how_. How were they going to stop an entire race of supernatural creatures with only _two_ nation personifications, of whom were probably last on the list of potential saviours of humankind?

Laughter interrupted his thoughts. Romano watched his brother's exchanges with Rome. He didn't like how comfortable the both of them were getting with each other. He didn't have the heart to stop them, but it all felt sort of surreal to him, like he was still sleeping and experiencing a dream. Adding that to Rome's sudden disappearance and selfishness without saying goodbye, Lovino found himself sporting a deep hatred for the man.

Rome ruffled his hair. "Aren't you going to say something, Roma? It's kind of lonely with just Ita and me speaking with each other~!"

_How could he be so relaxed about all of this?!_

Lovino glanced away, embarrassed for being caught staring. "I have nothing to say to you, bastard."

Rome raised a hurt eyebrow. "B-b-but . . . what happened to you?! I remember when you were such a sweet child~ Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Tsk, happy. Right. You ask what happened with me? I grew up, that's what happened."

Tense silence.

Feliciano began warningly, "_Fratello . . ._"

"Last time we saw each other," said Rome, "we were on good terms! Weren't we? Roma, please say something?"

"Shut up," Lovino said.

"Roma!"

"_Fratello_, be nice. We haven't seen Grandpa in such a long time. He's not dead after all, and all you can say or do is be rude to him? I thought you were better than this."

"Stop lying," Lovino muttered. "I know that Grandpa Bastard visited you."

Feliciano blinked in confusion. "_Ve_? He did? I thought that was just a dream!"

"Yeah, well . . . he didn't bother visiting me." Lovino fixed his grandfather with a flat look. "Gee. Thanks a _bunch_, gramps."

"Is that what this is about?" Rome wondered. "Roma, if you just told me, maybe I could—"

"No, I don't really care about that. There is so much I want to say to you, bastard. And I don't think I can properly express it all through words."

"_Fratello! _We're in a public place, for God's sake!"

Screw that. He was tired of holding it in. It was about damn time someone listened to _him_ for a change.

"Before you went off to die, you never said a word to either of us. Not a goodbye, not even a_ messenger_ to tell us goodbye on your behalf. _Nooo_. You just abandoned us to fend for ourselves. And now that I'm all grown up, I finally realize what you _really_ meant back then, what with all those fancy words you said to me. And I'll even admit that it worked. You actually brought my hopes up."

"Roma, what I said was the truth!"

"Shut up. Just because you explained your reasons to me doesn't mean I forgave you. You think I would so easily let it go after all the crap you put us through?! '_Are you holding something against me?_' What do you think?! You ignored me for a good portion of my life and completely neglected my existence. Then you marched off to war, leaving Feli _all the goddamned work __to do himself_, and now you have the _nerve_ to show up, in _this_ era?!"

"Roma! You cannot talk to me in this way. I am your elder!"

"You're not in the position to tell me what to do anymore!" Lovino snapped. "Your excuses cannot mask the past. Sure, you gave Feliciano the more important duties. Someone would think of it as an honour. But do you realize how much you hurt him?! He cried so much over you that he wasn't the same anymore! And yet, despite everything, he continued to take your place and do everything you would have done if you were still around—while being a fucking _child_!"

Feliciano lowered himself into his seat, _ve_'ing sadly. He didn't like family fighting with each other. There was a certain truth in his brother's words, but even still, Rome didn't have a choice at that time: it was either go to war and protect your family or die along with them.

He covered his ears. Romano was a natural pessimist—it was easy for him to pick out misfortune in one's life. Feliciano just wished that he'd learn to view the good side of things, instead of resorting to the dark thoughts he often veered toward. Despite his words, their life had actually been a happy one. Rome was a responsible enough guardian, and there was no major familial struggle between them.

"Sure, you gave me the mission of protecting him as well as your inheritance," Lovino continued, "but after you disappeared, I realized that there was no _self-fulfillment_ in what I did. I still lost the inheritance, and I still lost Feli. My own brother, you jackass! Do you understand me?! Everything I accomplished through blood, sweat, and tears came out worthless in the end!"

Rome was dumbstruck. He shook his head in denial. "That's not true. You know that's not true."

"How would you know? Things didn't get better, no matter how hard we tried! It was always _do this_ or _do that_; we never had a choice to do what we wanted or we risked punishment from the higher-ups! We had always been stuck on the bottom of the food chain as fucking maids!"

"It was the same thing for other nations, Roma. You don't have to be selfish," countered Rome.

Lovino shook his head, as if tired of explaining his feelings, which he wasn't very good at to begin with. "Everything we accomplished had been for _you_! But did you understand that?! Everything we'd been building up, learning, striving for—is so that we could be of use to you! So tell me what use we are to a DEAD MAN!"

"But it got better, didn't it?" Rome continued innocently.

"Better?" Lovino narrowed his eyes. "_Better?_ Tell me what part of _this_ is better! What the fuck makes you think the end of the world is _better_?"

"And how is that my fault?"

"Th-things could have been _better_ if you were around. Better than this. At least—" Romano clawed at his hair and growled in frustration. "Dammit! Why can't you fucking _understand_?"

"Maybe if you explain with a bit more detail—"

"I'm this close—" Lovino held a hair's breadth between his fingers and showed it to Rome's face. "I'm this close, bastard, before I—"

"_Fratello,_ Grandpa, please don't fight anymore," pleaded Feliciano, close to tears. "This is all a misunderstanding. Let's sort this out through a calm chat, _si_?"

Lovino wasn't listening. Neither was Rome. You could tell the former empire was getting riled up.

"Remember I told you that I loved the both of you?" said Rome, unusually calm. "I meant it. I would have never intentionally placed the both of you in danger."

"Shut up! All you ever said were mere pretty words. They meant nothing. You never answered my questions outright, and you always kept secrets from us . . . !"

Rome just sat with an emotionless expression on his face, accepting all the merciless accusations flying his way. Meanwhile, Lovino continued to list off reasons for another good minute.

"I could tell you were trying to veer away from telling me the truth," he concluded, shaking with fury. "And you know what? I completely fell for your bullshit!"

"That's _enough_, _fratello!_" Feliciano interjected heatedly, a rare sight for the usually harmless Italian. He was tired of the anger and hate; it made him sick. It was about time he took charge. "I ought to wash your mouth out with soup. You can't speak to Grandpa this way!"

Both Rome and Romano had frozen with a stunned expression on their faces. Suddenly Lovino nodded.

"You're right," he said. "I'll sum up my points for you in a few short words, then." He leaned forward, his palms faced down on the table. "_Everything you ever said to me was total BS. Ciao, jerkface._"

Romano stood and stormed into the streets, slamming the gate behind him. The nearby civilians turned their heads and watched him trail away. No doubt they heard the entire argument.

Feliciano slumped forward, the conversation clearly taking a strain on his mentality. He tried to explain. "Please don't mind him. He's . . . emotionally stable as of late. Before he woke up, he was having nightmares—"

"What do you mean he _woke up_?" Rome blurted, having forgotten he asked the question already.

"He was in a coma for three weeks. When he woke up, he seemed fine to me. I don't know where all that hatred came from, but—"

"Three weeks? Whatever for?"

Feliciano furrowed his eyebrows and asked once more, "Grandpa, could you tell me why you're here?"

Rome blinked. "Why I'm here?"

"Yes."

"Why . . . I don't know, really. I just thought of visiting you."

"Yes, but why _now_? You had every chance of thinking of coming to visit us _before_ today."

"Er . . ." Rome couldn't find any words to say. "I don't know?"

Typical Rome. So he just happened to wander to the same café on the same day, at the same time? Veneziano even had to admit that his grandfather's actions were a little shady, as if he was holding more back than he was telling them. His response to Lovino's words was too apathetic. His general reaction to meeting them was too casual. Now he was playing innocent?

Feliciano sat back and stirred his coffee. "I'm . . . sorry about _fratello._ He shouldn't have said those things—it was completely out of line. I can tell he misses you too. I can _feel_ it. But you can't expect him to be reasonable, especially after his near-death experience. Whatever he was dreaming about must have hit him hard . . . I'm imagining it's about you."

"Me? Why was he dreaming about me?"

"I don't really understand it either, but sometimes I would get glimpses of his dreams myself, when I'm sleeping. I see your face in it all the time."

"_Whaaat_? No!"

"Yes. _Fratello_ has abandonment issues that he tries to hide—although not always effective. He might not think I realize it, but I know he feels inferior compared to myself, while being protective of me, which is rather contradictory, isn't it? He's tearing himself apart between two sides that can't win."

"But I've always—" Rome stopped himself. "I've always paid attention to him. Haven't I?"

Feliciano gazed at his grandfather in disappointment. "Not enough. Even I have thought what he believed in once upon a time. And I hated it. Why would I think such things of my own grandfather? That's what I often asked myself. When I met Ludwig and Kiku, all that resentment vanished. They showed me what was important, the friendship that company brings." He flashed a brief smile. "I was happy."

"But your brother wasn't."

"No. He wasn't." Feliciano frowned, the expression offset on his usually pleasant face. "He's always been a different story—an enigma, almost. But I wouldn't say that because he's my brother. Grudges don't evaporate so easily for him. He's only ever had Spain, so he doesn't understand companionship very well."

Rome's heart sank. Had he really inflicted so much suffering on his grandchildren? Even sweet Feliciano cursed his disappearance for a good period of time.

"So what do we do?" he wanted to know.

"Give him time. He'll come back to us. For now, we'll have to wait for him."

* * *

**. . . You probably hate me, don't you? I know, I know. I was having a hard time with this chapter because I didn't know how to express the feelings everyone had, and it's even harder when you're writing a tsundere's dialogue. It's been a difficult time, all right? For all of us.  
**

**Romano is kind of out of sync with his emotions and angry towards Rome. Italy's trying to balance both sides out, but he's not helping much since no one can win this way. Spain's part is self-explanatory. Rome will always be Rome - clueless and light-hearted.  
**

**The part I really look forward to writing is Germany's story (partly because the Awesome Prussia helps delivers it xD). I think his personal conflict is very human and it's nice to tap further into his friendship with Italy and Japan. Sadly, I won't be able to get to his part until later in the story. T-T Damn you, plot!**


	13. XIII: Canada

**Warning: Canada. For his French curses. He's nice enough to not say them in English.**

* * *

_95 bottles of beer on the wall . . . 95 bottles of beer . . ._

Canada glanced around the room, his gun held cautiously in both hands, searching for any sound of movement. He knew he wasn't alone in this house. It was too dangerous to _not_ assume that was the case. They were waiting for his guard to lower, and he wasn't going to give them any chances.

_. . . Take one down, pass it around, 94 bottles of beer on the wall . . ._

It was an eerie choice of a song to pass the time, but he needed to keep his nerves grounded in order to survive this place. He promised himself that he would stay alive before the countdown reached zero.

Or until Alfred d**_—_**

Something snapped in the background. Matthew spun around.

One of America's old toy soldiers had fallen on its side, its toy weapon lying broken on the ground. Matthew righted it and placed it among its brothers on the table. Upon closer inspection, each and every one of these soldier's faces were different. England must have taken great care to have these soldiers carved and painted. America must have known that too, so he kept them.

Matthew smiled. Despite their _unique_ relationship, both Alfred and Arthur cared for each other. They just showed it in their own special ways.

_92 bottles of beer on the wall . . . _

Matthew finished sweeping the room and moved on to the next. He arrived in the kitchen. Light from the appliances illuminated the kitchen knives hanging on their hooks. The sight reminded him of England for some reason. It was eerie to say the least.

"At least I still have you, eh, Kuma?" Canada glanced around. "Kuma?"

Crap. He was pretty sure he got locked inside the house _with_ Kumasaki. Where was that polar bear?

He knew he didn't lose Kumafuka back at the airport. Kuma must have scrambled off somewhere when the doors slammed behind them.

Towards the exit, Matthew spotted a pale, grey body. Small. Not the size for a Frost Man, nor a polar bear. He lowered his gun and managed a smile.

"Hey, Tony."

The alien did not reply.

"I'm glad you're here," continued Matthew. "Though, it's rather dangerous right now, eh? You should find a place to hide."

Tony did not move. Matthew decided to get straight to the point.

"Do you know where Alfred is? Have you seen him?"

No reply. He blinked once, and Tony was gone.

Matthew stumbled backward. _Wh-what the hell? _

He was there, and then he wasn't?! Was he just _imagining_ Tony? What the hell was going on?

_Take one down, pass it around, 91 bottles of beer on the wall . . ._

Okay, so the shadows were playing tricks on him? How? There weren't any lights around to cast a shadow. Maybe it was just him after all?

Matthew cautiously approached the doorway and swept a hand over the spot where Tony was standing before. Nothing. Not even a drop in temperature, something that indicated the presence of ghosts. So what did he see?

The Canadian shuffled on. He halted next to the basement door. The darkness was unreachable three steps down. He should probably save the basement for last. He didn't feel like exploring its depths just yet.

**M-Mattie . .** **.**

Matthew flinched to the side and nearly smashed his head into the wall. He slid down into a tight ball, grasping his head in pain.

This voice . . . he experienced it once before. When the Frost Man crashed through the window of the hotel, looking for Antonio. But it wasn't _their_ words this time. It was Alfred's.

**I'm glad you came safely, Mattie.**

"What do you want?" Matthew demanded. "Give me back my brother!"

**Mattie, it's me.**

"No, it's not! They're making you say these things, and you know it!"

There was no reply for a long while. Matthew crawled to his feet and steadied himself on the wall.

"So what your game?" he asked, targeting the question at the Frost Men. "What do you want with me?"

**You're supposed to reach the end of the maze.**

_What?_

**Get to the end of the maze, and you win. If you don't . . . If you don't, we'll both die.**

"Wait! Alfred, what happens if I get to the end?!"

**Get to the end, and you keep your life.**

"What about yours?"

**It's never been about me, Mattie. It was always about you.**

"What the hell are you talking about?"

**I can't say anymore. They won't allow me. If you don't get to the end and they kill you along the way . . . Well, I guess that's what they've always wanted.**

Alfred was speaking in monotone, as if he'd already lost the fight and given up. Matthew wouldn't believe it. America wouldn't back down from a fight so easily, especially one that he had to win against!

"You wait for me, Al," he spoke. "I promise you, I will reach the end, find you, and get the both of us out alive. I don't care what those Frost Men have to say about this!"

He didn't expect Alfred to answer, but from what he got, he could tell that Alfred was nowhere close to being beaten.

**Thank you, Mattie.**

Oh, those FM guys weren't going to like that. Matthew smiled at his brother's rebellion. It was a few hundred years too late for him to be starting up again; the American Revolution was his first and last climax of adolescence. Or so it seemed.

He didn't hear Alfred's voice again. Strange whispers were taking the place of his words instead. Matthew knew these well. The Frost Men were definitely in this house with him, and they were close.

Matthew ran.

He was pretty sure at this point that the Frost Men had caught onto his trail and were proceeding to hunt him down. Matthew knocked open doors, windows, cupboards, closets**_—_**if he had to reach the end, he needed to find a way out. He got close once, but his effort had triggered an alarm and all the doors immediately slammed shut. What followed was the equivalent shaking of an earthquake.

When he reopened the doors again, he found the pathways different.

A growling interrupted his venturing. Matthew dived into a closet and shut the door, hoping the FM hadn't detected his movement.

He waited with baited breath as shadows slid across the bottom of the door. Matthew tried to keep his breathing to a minimal, but with all the running he did previously and the added adrenaline of blood coursing through his veins, he found it nearly impossible to keep himself from panting. He slid his hand across his mouth to muffle the sound.

The FM lingered outside. Their shadows wouldn't stay away from the door from more than a minute at a time. Matthew was beginning to think that they knew he was in there.

Suddenly a rapid vibration hummed from his pant pockets. Matthew nearly jumped out of his skin and screamed if it hadn't been his hand there reminding him to shut up.

He slowly and silently drew out his phone and answered it.

"Hello?" he practically breathed into the speaker.

Apparently Francis knew that Canada was in a shitty position because his voice was also barely above a whisper.

"_Matthew, hang on in there_," he said. "_Hold on, where are you?_"

"In a closet on the second floor."

A shadow flitted under the door. Matthew dragged himself into a deeper part of the closet, where boxes blocked a nice spot in the corner, creating a momentary fortress for him to take refuge in.

"_A closet, huh? I see. I have the house layout in front of me, and let me tell you: it's ingenious. He has lasers just about in every room and if too many rooms have been accessed in a given amount of time, the structure automatically unlocks and begins to rearrange itself****__—_"

"Sorry to interrupt, Papa, but I really need a sure-fire way out of this pl**_—_** Wait. You said his house _rearranges_ itself?"

"_That's right._"

"_Merde_. Then I may not even be on the second floor anymore."

"_Matthew?_"

"I experienced this rearrangement just a few minutes ago. That's probably what they meant when they said 'end of the maze'. Maze refers to the structure of this house. Just where is the end of the maze, though? That's what I don't get."

"_Don't you have Kumajirou with you? He could sniff out Alfred._"

"No, Kumajirou went missing a while back. Besides, I don't think his nose would do any good in this place."

He heard a sigh from Francis. "_I hate to add on to the list of more misfortunes, but Alfred's house is also magic-proof._"

"Magic-proof?"

"_As in he's enchanted the house to block against all magical interference. I suspect it was first to block out Angleterre, but now that I think about it, Arthur may be the only one who knows how to take the charm off. I've tried but it's been futile. And by the time Angleterre gets here, it may already be too late._"

Matthew's eyes darted to the closet door again. He hadn't heard any disturbance outside for a whole two minutes. Maybe the FM were finally gone?

"Papa, I don't think Arthur would readily come here anyhow."

"_I'm sorry, Mathieu. If I could use magic, I would use it to get you out and Alfred along with you._"

"You can't use it at all? You can't even tell which room Alfred's in?"

"_Désolé. The best we can do is use the building's floor plan. Though, if it is as you say, it would be just as useless, with the way the house scrambles itself._"

"You don't know that, Papa. Give me a second. I will find a starting point and call you back."

He clicked the phone off before Francis could protest. Matthew readied his gun and reached for the knob.

A clawed hand smashed through the body of the door, flinging splinters everywhere. Matthew was only so lucky. He got away with a scrape on his shoulder.

The Frost Man retracted its arm and went in for another_—_smashing the door over and over again. Matthew didn't notice a large piece of wood imprinting itself deeply into his arm, causing red to spread over the pristine white of his dress shirt. He could only sit dumbly, watching the hole grow. The view grew so wide that Matthew could see the Frost Man's grotesque head glaring down at him.

So it's true. They knew he was in here all along. They were only playing with him.

The Frost Man snarled, exposing its circular jaw of incisors. Matthew had bullets ripping through its head in a split second.

He kicked the door open. "Next time keep your trap shut," he growled at it, before leaving the closet like the passive-aggressive badass he was.

Now, where to? He needed to find a landmark, right? So what room was different from the rest of them and would be on the floor-plan?

Canada found America's bedroom. He called France.

"Papa, bring up Alfred's room. It should have 'Hero's Chill-Zone' written all over it."

"_Found it._"

"Okay. Tell me what rooms interlock his from the default setting."

"_The bathroom and the arcade room._"

"What other rooms _could_ interlock with his?"

"_The laundry room, closet 1, and closet 3._"

"Okay, that narrows it down quite a bit. I encountered one closet earlier . . . How many closets does he have?"

"_In total? 10._"

"How many closets can he have on one floor at a time?"

"_3-4._"

"All right, if the closet I was in earlier was the supposed second floor closet, it has to be either closet 1 or closet 3."

"_Closet 1's_ _from the first floor._"

"There's a good chance I'm not even on the second floor. I could either be on the first, third, fourth or even the basement."

"_The laundry room's from the basement._"

"That means it could only shift upward, then."

Matthew glanced across the hall from Alfred's room and down to the right. He found the laundry room.

"Okay, so the laundry room moved. Or Alfred's room moved. Either way, that means we're either on the first floor or the basement. Usually puzzles like these have only one block missing, so pieces can only move up one or down one at a time."

"_So where is this 'end of the maze'?_"

"Well, I'm guessing it's the attic."

"_You don't sound sure._"

"I'm not."

"_Mathieu,_" began France.

"I don't need to hear it," said Matthew. "We have nothing else to go by, so**_—_**"

"_No._"

"Papa?"

"_No!_ _No, this can't be happening!_"

"What's wrong?"

"_Someone's back-hacking me. I can't reestablish the_ _connection!_"

"It has to be the FM. Papa, try harder!"

"_I am!_ _Dammit . . . The screens flashing on and off, and . . . these Frost Men are intelligent to be able to do this much_." What followed was the incessant clatter of keys as Francis worked to re-hack the mainframe.

The tapping stopped. A dull beeping emanated from the other side of the phone, singing praises of _You lose! You lose! You lose!_

"Papa?" Matthew tried.

"_I'm sorry, Mathieu. I've lost the signal_. _The floor plan is gone._"

"No . . ." Matthew felt all the world collapse before him. His knees buckled and gave away. "No. How am I supposed to find Alfred now? How am I supposed to _get out_?"

"_Look, we'll figure something out. I'll . . . I'll call for help. Okay? Just hang on until they get here. Matthew? Matthew, are you still there?_"

Matthew dropped the phone and sunk deeper into himself. How was he supposed to save Alfred now? He thought he had eyes in this godforsaken house, but without Francis helping in through every step, he was just as lost as . . .

**You're taking too long, Mattie.**

"I know," said Matthew, through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry."

**They're not happy.**

"I know."

**They're growing impatient.**

"I know."

**They were hoping you would impress them before they killed you.**

"Yeah, well, they're not getting anything from me."

"_Mathieu? Matthew, who are you speaking to?_"

"No one," said Matthew. "Just a voice in my head."

"_Listen, Mathieu. I'm calling for help. Hang on, hide, something****__—_just stay alive until they get here!"

Matthew turned the phone off. He didn't think Francis' reassurance would help a lot at this point.

"Alfred, why are they doing this?"

**. . . I can't tell you that.**

"Then answer this: Why do they want to kill me?"

**Because you killed one of their own. They want revenge. Your blood for their****_—_** Alfred choked up here. **Your blood . . . for their brother's.**

"And what about you?"

**I was . . . collateral damage.**

It must have pained America so much to be saying such things about himself. But he had no choice. If he didn't, he was dead. If he went along with their plans, he was still dead. But at least he got to see his brother one last time before that happened.

**They saw that I wasn't you, and so they decided to hold me prisoner in order to get you here. And why not, right? I'm America; it's better if I get killed off early before I deal some real damage.**** It's strategic as well as convenient.**

"Don't say that, Alfred," said Matthew. "They can't force you to say things you don't mean. You don't take orders from them. You die when you want to."

But this new change of pace was strange. _America_ was mistaken for him? Really? After all those years of _him_ being mistaken for America? But it didn't really matter who was being mistaken for who at this point. Matthew suffered both ways.

**P-please, Mattie. I****_—_**I don't want to do this anymore. I hate speaking to you this way. Alfred's voice was shaking. **Please just hurry up and find me. I've dug myself a hole I could never get out of. Like a rabbit trap in the middle of the forest.**

"That's weird, Al. Why are you say**_—_**?"

**Mattie? Mattie, please . . . understand.  
**

"I . . . I don't know what I'm looking for, Al. I'm sorry. But . . . but no matter what happens, I'll find you. I promise."

**It is too late.**

The voice originated from behind him, not from within him. Matthew whirled around to come face-to-face with another Frost Man. He stumbled backward in such a way that he practically crab-walked to his feet. He shakily pointed his gun at the FM.

"What do you want?"

**It is too late. Your time has finished.**

The words sent shivers down his spine. Matthew fought against the chill, reinforcing his strength with a deep draw of breath.

"No."

**No?**

Matthew's voice was cold, rough, and low. It was easily heard in the blackness. "No. I'm done taking orders from you."

**Mattie, just listen to****_—_**

**SILENCE!  
**

Alfred screamed. His voice, however, was drowned out by the sound of metal clanging. Almost like a slight tinkling in the wind.

"You _chained _him?" Matthew accused in disbelief. "You chained my brother?! You _bâtards_ have gone too far!"

**It was necessary to hold him down. He would not cooperate with us.**

"Like hell he would! You intend to kill all of us, don't you? One-by-one until there's nothing left."

**He is strong, but not that strong. We will kill him, you, and then the rest of the world. And we will watch. Watch as you nations scream, beg, suffer, and wallow in your misery.**** A****nd we will do it slowly_—_**

"Stop it!" Matthew shouted.

He didn't want to hear anymore. It wasn't just the words either. The Frost Men were able to project their thoughts into others, meaning they could also show images. These images were nothing but pleasant. They were _horrific_.

Images of burning cities flashed before his eyes******_—_**so much blood, so much fire. Everyone was dying and dead, their bodies strewn over the earth like rag dolls. The Frost Men stood triumphant in their group, skittering out of the underground like little ants.

The last remnant of nations were battered and broken. And the Frost Men showed Matthew should how they would go about killing these remaining nations******_—_**in the most horrifying, explicit and inhumane way possible. There was nothing left of them.

Canada blinked quickly, trying to rid himself of the visions. "Stop it . . . It******_—_**It's me you want, isn't it? Alfred's got nothing to do with this! Take me and let him go!"

**You are in no position to make bargains. Would you like us to kill your brother?**

"You . . . You wouldn't."

**You are correct. We would like you to watch as your brother is torn apart before your eyes.**

The connection was distorted as Alfred's voice reentered the fray: **Tony! Tony, stop this! Fight against them! They can't hold you down!**

_What?_ thought Matthew. _Why is Alfred talking to Tony?_

**Fight them, Tony! They can't control you! This is your body, bro. Not theirs! You're hurting people, Tony! That's NOT who you are!**

The Frost Man in front of Matthew began losing his mind**_—_**quite literally. It thrashed violently from side-to-side, crashing into the wall and the windows. It made a deep dent in the steel sheet shielding the glass.

**Yes! Yes, Tony. Fight them!**

The Frost Man wailed. **You cannot force us out! We will not be defeated!**

_What the hell is going on?_ Matthew's brain feverishly switched between the outside world and the inner battle of thoughts within him. He could barely take the strain.

**No, no, no!** shrieked the Frost Man, trilling like a banshee. **NO! It is useless! You cannot escape from our wrath!**

Matthew clutched his head in dismay. So many thoughts were entering his mind that he was having trouble keeping up. Add that to his fragmented mental state and he was veering towards insanity. The darkness in the house was suffocating him, and the images wouldn't stop. _They wouldn't stop_.

The Frost Man had regained its composure and was looming over Matthew. The Canadian continued to go mad from the various entities in his mind.

Was he . . . ? Who was he? Was he fighting against himself? With himself?

Who was he? Were these his thoughts? Their thoughts? Who was he supposed to listen to? His brother? Them? Who was he supposed to save? Himself? From what?

_Who am I?_

* * *

_. . . 0 bottles of beer on the wall._

* * *

**Yup. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's a little creepy, but it's supposed to be. I wonder what will happen to Canada and America now, and I wonder what France is going to do about their sudden handicap. Hmm. Kumajirou's disappeared too. So many questions . . .  
**

**Now let me express my happiness in Hetalia's fifth season release. Yay! The art changed dramatically. Everyone's so shiny now, and I don't know if it's possible but France became even more fabulous. =P I can't wait to see the new characters they'll introduce. I don't think S. Korea's in it, which is a shame. But I see Romania! =D  
**

**Anyway, thanks for reading, as per usual. Reviews are always appreciated. _Adieu~_  
**


	14. XIV: Duty

**I'm alive! There's a long message at the end, just a warning now. Read at your own risk.**

* * *

**Berlin, Germany | Ludwig B.'s office**

_Dear Ludwig,_

_Become one with me,_ _da?_

Prussia uncapped his pen and scribbled down a large 'NO'. Then he wrote under it:

_When my less awesome brother ignores you after the first twenty-three letters, it means NO, okay? He DOESN'T want to become one with you. Also, stop sending him Facebook friend requests. That's my job._

_P.S. I'M AWESOME!_

Gilbert stamped the paper with the parliament's official seal. Hopefully when Russia sees this, he would stop sending unification proposals. Gilbert moved on to the next set of documents that he quickly signed. He soon grew bored with the process.

For the next several minutes, Gilbert played around in the swivel chair, spinning in circles repeatedly until he got dizzy, and also racing himself to the other side of the room. It wasn't as fun as he hoped it would be. For one, he was competing against himself. Two, there was no one present to listen to his boasts of awesomeness.

He took a gander at Ludwig's office and decided he needed to awesomize it a little. Germany was too formal about the way his office looked. It needed some quality Prussia in it.

Speaking of the less awesome West Germany (in his opinion, anyway), it had been decided beforehand that Austria would work at Switzerland's office, and Germany would take over for Austria at his office. That meant Gilbert was stuck at his little brother's place until Switzerland could be found. Which wasn't anytime soon.

One time he brought in his drum set (seeing as since he couldn't practice at home, might as well practice at work, right?) but Germany's boss forced him to take it back. Or else. The or else was to destroy it. Gilbert begged him not to, and then finally promised to leave the musical instrument at home.

If you asked Austria, he would most likely deny drums being a musical instrument at all. At least at the hands of a certain Prussian. (1)

Not that Gilbert _wouldn't_ go to work or do a favour for his brother, but . . . Come on. He could totally use the time to do other things. Like invade vital regions.

It had been several days since he arrived at the office. Most of those days were spent running between floors, faxing and filing documents, getting yelled at by his co-workers, and also getting high on caffeine. He usually went home pretty late, whenever Ludwig told him it was time to go. He was never informed of how long he should work and his schedule was way too tight for him to find out, so Ludwig served as his personal clock.

He briefly wondered how everyone else was doing. Where was France the last time he'd seen him? It didn't feel like he was in Europe anymore . . . And what the hell was Spain doing? The guy wouldn't speak to anyone and it was a mystery given the nature of the Spaniard. Prussia felt as though Antonio was punishing himself and waiting for some kind of retribution.

Gilbert opened another letter.

_Dear comrade—_

He fed it to the shredder-machine. The bin was filled to the brim with Russia's letters, and Gilbert had already emptied it once.

Gilbert got up with his files in hand and decided to get some photocopying done. He spent about ten minutes at the photocopier, trying to get it to work, but a man came by and told him it was up for maintenance. He ran into the elevator and decided to use floor 5's machine. They wouldn't mind.

It was a short ride down, but it was the longest thirty seconds of his life.

A man stood in the elevator with him, and his appearance was strange. There weren't a lot of hippies around anymore, right? And since when did hippies infiltrate office buildings?

Gilbert noted the long, blond hair of the man and was suddenly reminded of another person, although now lost in his memory.

"Hey," said the man.

Prussia looked behind him. Well, there were no other people in the elevator, so it had to be him he was talking to, right? Of course. Because he was _that_ awesome.

"Yeah?"

"You don't know a Ludwig Beilschmidt, do you?"

"Er, _ja_, but he's not in the building. Do you need him for something?"

The man took a long time to reply. The elevator opened to the sixth floor.

"No," said the man. "It's fine." And he walked out.

Prussia tilted his head to the side and stared at the man's back until the doors slid shut. He stood staring like that until the doors opened to the fifth floor. He unlocked himself from his stupor and advanced on the photocopier.

There were about fifty copies he needed to print out, and Gilbert soon grew disinterested at the process. He waited around and drew on the whiteboards. He even doodled on the bulletin board and wrote _THE AWESOME ME WAS HERE!_ all over it. One of the secretaries waved him off and yelled for him to do something useful with his life.

This happened about every day, three times a day. He was reported as being a nuisance more than once, and he had been more than once sent to the boss' office to await a long lecture about his immature behaviour. Immature? He was the Awesome Prussia, and his boss knew it.

"Take your job more seriously."

"I _am_ taking it seriously. It's not even my job."

"Your brother is busy, so you're all we have. Don't screw this up."

Gilbert nodded reluctantly and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Afterwards he handed the papers off to the co-workers on the same floor and then returned to his office. There he sat, scratching at his eye.

His arm had been fully mended due to it being only partially wrecked. His right eye was a different case. It was nearly destroyed during the fight with his respective Frost Man and he had to wear an eyepatch to keep himself from scratching at it.

Ludwig said it was a psychological issue. He didn't scratch at his eye because it was itchy—actually, he often did it without thinking. This led his younger brother to believe that Gilbert secretly felt ashamed about his performance at the hotel and was hating himself for it.

That was a load of bull. He didn't hate himself!

Okay, sure, maybe his battle could have gone a lot smoother and maybe he could have done more than just fight, but . . . But they won, didn't they? Wasn't that what counted the most?

But they haven't won yet, that was the thing. Gilbert got up from his seat.

He headed into the public bathroom across the hall. There he lifted his eyepatch and studied his reflection in the mirror.

He was slowly reattaining his sight. Ludwig had said it was going to be a process. The eye itself had been healed, and the blood vacant, but the injury left an ugly scar running down vertical to his eye. Gilbert personally thought it looked awesome. Roderich said it was vulgar, Elizabeta said it made him look pitiful, and Ludwig sighed but didn't question the initial opinion. He was much used to his older brother's antics by now.

Gilbert stood back and straightened his tie. He'd never been comfortable with wearing a suit, and Ludwig had denied him his uniform, so he was stuck with this. Ludwig had insisted he look the part, and Gilbert wasn't going to disappoint his brother. Still, if he was going to wear a suit, he should be allowed Gilbird as company. Along with his drum set, Germany's boss had forced him to keep Gilbird at home. So unawesome.

Later into the day, right before Ludwig made his scheduled entrance, Gilbert obtained an important call. He wondered if it was really happening, but the claims appeared to be truthful. The Frost Men were back.

"_Bruder._" Germany pushed through the office door. "It's time to go home . . . What are you doing? Where's your eyepatch?"

Gilbert was feverishly shoving papers into his briefcase. He didn't look up upon Ludwig's entrance.

"West, I'm going to be unavailable for the next few days."

"What?" Ludwig stepped through the threshold and examined his newly 'awesomized' office. If he hadn't been so preoccupied in questioning Prussia, he would have demanded the reason for this renovation. "Gilbert, you understand we don't have anymore extra people to cover for you? You're going to have to stay. Tell whoever's calling you to postpone it to a later date."

"You don't understand, West. It's urgent!"

Prussia was a very passionate person, and Ludwig could see that now. His eyes were pleading and desperate, which didn't suit his boisterous personality. Ludwig grew concerned.

"What's this about, Gilbert?"

"I'm heading over to Bulgaria's place."

"Bulgaria? That's an odd choice of destination. Was he the one who called you?"

"No, but I need to borrow his magic." (2)

"Why magic? Bulgaria doesn't have much of it, you know that."

"I heard Norway wasn't around, so I can't use his magic. And it's not like I can ask England, either. Romania's one of the missing. Bulgaria's magic should be enough."

"For what?"

Prussia only shook his head. "This shouldn't be your concern right now. The problem is mostly contained."

"_Mostly_? Prussia, what's going on?"

"West, there was someone looking for you today. He didn't say much, though. Hopefully you could meet up with him soon, all right?"

"Brother, what are you . . . ? Why are you doing this?"

"You've got enough on your plate, West. I don't need to add anything more to it. Talk it out with Feliciano, okay? Settle your problems as soon as you can. Your big brother's going on a journey that he might not come home from."

Ludwig didn't like the sound of those words. It was almost as if Gilbert was saying goodbye. Permanently. Why was he so insistent on not telling him what was going on?

"Hey, Gilbert . . ." he said. "About the other day—I'm sorry about what I said to you. I know you were only trying to help."

Gilbert stepped up to his brother and laid his hand on top of his head. "I know you the best, West. I know that you'd be the least easiest to convince otherwise once your mind's set. So, do what you have to do. Make sure you quickly make up your mind, before Veneziano does choose to confront you first. As for me . . . It's the big brother's job to protect everyone, isn't it? It's what I have to do."

"Wait! You never told me were you were going."

Gilbert brushed past Ludwig, in the process of sliding on his coat. He didn't respond. Ludwig's eyes trained on Gilbert's back as he became smaller and smaller in the distance.

"Hey, West." He'd stopped walking. "Does my eye look okay?"

Ludwig sighed and nodded, though he knew Gilbert couldn't see.

_That idiot._

"It looks fine."

And that was the last time Gilbert came home.

* * *

The first few steps down the street were long, fevered strides. As Lovino rounded the corner, he slowed to a brisk pace and then stopped altogether.

First of all, where was he going?

More importantly, what the _hell_ was that?

Yes, what the hell _happened_ back there? He didn't remember being that angry, certainly not angry enough to show his grandfather up in front of all those spectators. What was wrong with him?

_It's the fact that you've just woken up,_ he told himself, even though he knew that wasn't it. _You're a little confused after those dreams; you want to set the record straight. Gramps didn't . . . deserve those words._

No, he didn't, now that he thought about it. Lovino wanted to go back and apologize. He'd crossed the line and said too much to let it slide. Otherwise Feli would never forgive him, and Feli was probably the last person on his list that he wanted to be hated by. Next to Spain, maybe. Spain was a close second.

Speaking of which . . .

"I'm such an _idiota_," said Romano. "What the hell am I doing?"

Now that he was awake, he had to apologize to Spain. He couldn't simply wave aside what he said to Antonio back then. He needed to apologize to his family members first. That is, if they didn't hate his guts.

. . . That was a lot of amends to make. This was why he never regularly said sorry, because it was too much work. God, and it was an even longer drive to Spain.

"I'll call him, and that's all he's getting," South Italy decided.

That night, in the alley, he felt a similar anger towards Spain as he did his grandfather. Lovino couldn't make any connection as to why that was; he blamed it on his muddled sense of . . . well, sense.

He hated a lot of people. Sometimes he couldn't differentiate between the various levels of hate on his Hate-O-Metre. Big deal.

Something he was certain of. Ever since his accident, he had been aggravated towards the only few people in his life he would never intentionally swear off at, and even if anger propelled one to do things he/she would never do, Lovino was pretty sure that he _felt_ like he wanted to, but at the same time he felt as if he had no choice.

His feelings just haven't been in his own control recently. What had been said was done; there was nothing he could do about it.

_Whatever._ He didn't want to think about this more than he had to. He checked off his mental list: _first, apologize to Gramps._

Lovino rounded the corner and resumed his quick pace, retracing his steps back to the cafe. Hopefully Feli and Rome were still there and wouldn't shun him or something. He had too much shunning in the past thousand years, and even though he was used to it, it, coming from his family, would be too much to bear.

Romano was so anxious to get back that he didn't notice all the pedestrians he was bumping into. He quickly muttered an apology to an old woman and restarted his journey.

Italian streets were packed densely during midday, especially in the city. He was moving against the flow of the crowd, everyone shoving past him in the opposite direction. He considered crossing the street, but then again he was so close and also too lazy to make the trip.

However, he noticed, the closer he neared the cafe, the less he wanted to make an appearance. His heart knew he had to, but his brain denied the action. He was too ashamed to show his face, after the effort he went through to make sure that he didn't want to see _their_ faces.

Lovino walked with his hands in his pockets, his head lowered. He failed to notice another figure speed past him before they both bumped shoulders.

"Sorry," Lovino muttered, having no energy to swear at whoever interrupted his stride.

"Sorry about that~" replied the stranger.

"Yeah, whatever, bastard."

"Roma?"

Hold on a sec. That voice was familiar.

Lovino wheeled around. "_Bastard?_"

"Lovi!" Spain could hardly believe it himself. He held his arms out, his face beaming. "I found you!"

"Bastard, what are you doing here?!"

"Came to find you!" Antonio lifted Lovino up, causing the other to swear profusely. "And I found you!"

"Put me down! Put me _down_!"

"Okay, okay."

He liked the ground, thank you very much.

Lovino straightened his shirt. "Mind telling me what you're doing here?"

"I came to find you."

"Why you're really here."

"I . . ." Antonio sighed. "I wanted to apologize."

"Funny. I was thinking of calling you to do the same thing."

"Really?" And Antonio's smile was back on his face. "So you really do care~!"

Lovino was unusually unresponsive. He just stared at the ground, visibly making an effort to suppress his irritation. Spain wondered what made him suddenly start trying.

"I realize being angry has its disadvantages. I want to start thinking more clearly."

"Why?"

"Because I was a jerk to you, bastard. And my _nonno_ too."

"_Nonno?_ Oh, you mean your grandfather? He's alive?"

"Yeah."

"That's great!"

Lovino didn't smile. "Sure."

Antonio, just this once, read the atmosphere. He didn't know what caused Lovino to act this way; he assumed it had something to do with Rome, and they'd recently had an altercation. He could guess that much.

He drew Lovino into his arms, and Lovino, being so out of it, didn't pull away at the gesture. Antonio realized just how much the Italian needed the hug.

"Does thinking more clearly mean I won't get to see my Roma anymore?"

"No," mumbled the Italian. "I'm still here. I'll still spit in your face, dye your hair pink, and load off at your house. I just won't blame you anymore."

"That's . . . that's good. Thank you."

Lovino shoved Antonio away. "Stop touching me."

"By the way," said the Spaniard, "how long have you been awake?"

"One—two hours ago. Why?"

"Hm, what a coincidence. Yesterday night I started driving here and before I knew it, I was in an accident. I was tired, so I slept the night in my car and hoped to find you in the morning."

"You were in an accident?! A-are you hurt?"

"Haha, it's no big deal~ Although, it's nice you're worried about me."

"I'm not worried about you! Least of all you!"

"Riiight."

"Drop dead, Boss. I swear."

Antonio laughed it off as he usually did, and Lovino tapped his foot impatiently.

"So how did you go about getting into a crash? Was someone drunk?"

"No, not at all! I was the one that caused the accident."

Romano wiped all expression off his face. _  
_

"No one died, right," he stated.

"No! No, of course not! Why would you think that? I'm a responsible driver."

"Good, because if you did end up killing someone, _I_ would have to do the paperwork."

"Well, it's all been sorted out, so don't worry. Took five hours of my precious sleep." Antonio yawned. "This country is _dangerous_."

"It's not the country that's dangerous, bastard. It's your f—"

"Anyway, I'm glad that's over!" Spain stretched his arms. "Now I get to finally see you!"

"We are NOT hugging again."

"Aw."

Suddenly a high pinging filled the air. Antonio looked behind him and drew out his phone.

"Hello? Uh huh. Uh huh. Really?" The Spaniard frowned, and then continued on skeptically. "Uh huh. Yes. I'll meet him there. Okay. Just wait a few minutes."

"Who's that?" asked Lovino.

Antonio held a finger to his lips. "Secret. Duty calls, Roma. See you later."

"Wha . . . ? Wait!"

"Yes?"

"Er . . . I'm—" Lovino took a deep breath, straining the next set of words. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what I said to you before."

Antonio smiled. He straightened like a great weight had been lifted off his back. All this time it seemed as if he had been waiting for Lovino to forgive him. "It's fine. I'm sorry, too. Hey, do something for me? Say the same thing to your _abuelo_. I'm sure he's waiting to hear those words from you."

Lovino glanced at his feet. "I don't think so."

"Hey, don't worry, all right? If he does truly love you, he won't judge you."

"How can you be so sure?"

_Because I didn't. _"I just know."

South Italy didn't appreciate the vague response. "Can you just answer me straight for once, bastard?! These riddles are annoying!"

Antonio sighed. "I'm glad you're putting the effort into changing your habits, Roma, but remember this—" Spain kissed his underling on the forehead as a sign of farewell. "Despite your willingness to change, always be yourself. You wouldn't be you otherwise."

Lovino made a displeased noise in his throat. "What's this supposed to be? A parting message?"

"Something like that. It's true, though. It's what you're obligated to do. Now run along. They won't be standing around forever."

Spain pointed and Romano saw that, indeed, his brother and grandpa were waiting for him beside their vehicle. Feliciano was trying to put on a brave face, but his true sadness cracked through his smiling mask. Rome's face was understanding. Lovino felt a pang in his gut.

_I don't deserve such clemency after all that I've said to him._

Antonio nudged him forward unexpectedly, causing him to stumble a step.

Lovino turned back around to say something more to Antonio, but the Spaniard was gone.

He brushed off their encounter (he'd rather forget that meeting with Antonio anyway) and crossed the street. He approached his family and took a deep breath. He could do this. Spain wasn't here, but just imagining the Spaniard by his side was enough to give him the courage to confront his mistakes.

"Grandpa. Veneziano," he greeted them awkwardly.

Feliciano's face brightened. He _ve'd_ happily. "_Fratello~_ You're back~"

Okay. Typical answer.

"So, uh," he started, "what happened to the—" He gestured to the cafe.

"We got kicked out~" Feliciano replied.

"Oh. S-sorry."

"I see you're feeling better," noted Rome, smirking to the side. "Did you sort out your dilemma? Need Grandpa to cheer you up?"

Another typical answer.

Lovino scowled. "No. If I don't want the Tomato Bastard's cheer-up charm, I don't need yours either."

Rome shrugged, brushing off their argument like it was nothing. "Well, okay. If you say so. Anyway, let's start with the second part of the discussion. There's something I'd _really_ like to share with you two—"

"W-wait!"

He was slightly disheartened that Rome treated their quarrel like a temporary block in his life. It wasn't that Lovino _wanted _him to feel bad about himself; it's just he assumed that his feelings were somewhat important to his grandfather. He assumed that Rome would _care._ And Rome just ignoring what happened reminded him of his error, of how much of a bigger deal it was compared to if Rome reacted more favourably.

"I'msorryforsayingthatstuff," he rushed out.

"Huh?"

Both Italy and Rome had tilted their head to the side at the same time.

"I said I'm sorry," said Lovino, face red. "Do I need to repeat myself again, dammit?"

Rome's lips pulled into a smile. Feliciano grabbed onto his brother's arm.

"Yay! You came through! I knew you would! Let's all enjoy some pasta now~"

"Get off of me!"

"I'm proud of you, Roma."

Lovino, distracted by the words, halted his attempt at prying Feliciano off of him. "What did you say?"

"I'm proud of you. You were able to accomplish what I couldn't. Despite what happened, you protected your brother, and you're still here. I wouldn't have been able to do the same. I could try, but—" Rome shrugged. "I disappeared. The only difference is, you didn't."

Lovino blinked a few times, trying to process Rome's compliment. It was a compliment, right? It felt alien to him, but he didn't hate it. Of course this wasn't the first time someone patted him on the back for his efforts; he just waved the other ones away because he couldn't understand the reasons for them. Coming from Rome's mouth, it was more than a simple job well done. It was acceptance.

Slowly, that loathing which caused him to fume so irrationally began to fade away into the deepest reaches of his mind. He knew it wasn't going to affect him anymore, hopefully, for a long, long time.

"You good, Roma?"

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Let's start again."

* * *

******(1) I refer to Prussia as a Prussian because he's so awesome, he gets his own nationality. Yay. But I understand under normal circumstances he's actually German. (Don't tell him that.)**

**(2) The magic trio are England, Romania and Norway. ****In the Harry Potter universe, Scotland has a magic school, Norway has a magic school, and France also has a school.** However, Bulgaria sends many of its students to Norway (or was it Sweden?) to attend Durmstrang, which is the magic school local to that area. That's why Bulgaria has magic, but not as powerful enough to be admitted to the magic gang. And France isn't in there because no one wants him there.  


* * *

**You might be thinking, "Why doesn't Prussia just tell Germany about the FM's return?" **

**Obviously because the problem is rather isolated, and Europe is in a state of disarray. Germany doesn't need another headache and since Prussia (isn't a nation), it's all right for him to disappear from the continent for a while. In conclusion, Prussia is a good big bro. He doesn't want to worry Germany or cause any unwanted panic. Plus they can't even do shit about the fact because they don't have the proper weapons to cause remotely any damage - AKA the EMP weapon. It's also unfinished because a certain someone decided to take a three week nap before he gave anyone his schematics to the transmitter.  
**

**In other news, Russia got hit by an asteroid! Okay, maybe it didn't actually impact exactly, but it came close...  
**

**Also, if any of you realized it yet, take the first letter of each of the BTT's first names, and then arrange them in a certain order. You can get:**

**Francis, Antonio, Gilbert - FAG**

**Yes, ladies and gentlemen. It's the FAG Trio. **

**Secondly! Take the first letter of their respective country names:**

**France, Prussia, Spain - FPS (First-Person Shooter)  
**

**Spain, Prussia, France - SPF (as in sunscreen, whatever floats your boat)**

**Why is Prussia always in the middle? (Because he's just that awesome!)  
**

**Thanks for reading!**


	15. XV: Motive

**I finally got this out, after so long! School sucks.**

* * *

"Grandpa, you said that you've met these Frost Men before, right?" asked Feliciano. "But do they have an actual name? What do they call themselves?"

They had taken the vehicle and driven through Rome before pulling up to the Tiber River. Said river was the third longest in Italy and snaked right through the capital city.

Rome, North Italy, and South Italy sat on a park bench overlooking the canal. Well, Rome and Feliciano did most of the sitting. Lovino ended up cross-legged behind the bench because Rome's troubadour things took up too much room. Rome insisted his instruments be given luxurious privilege. Lovino scoffed and sat with his back facing them. He hadn't been quite ready to speak with them on equal terms; he needed some quiet time to himself first.

So while Lovino scanned the area like a watch-dog, Rome and Feliciano sat speaking in casual conversation.

". . . What do they call themselves?"

Rome stopped singing and lowered his guitar. "_Quid?_"

"These Frost Men," Feliciano repeated. "We heard from Russia that in his language, they are 'Frost Men'. That's what he calls them, and it was only a brief encounter, so he couldn't exactly ask them. Do you know?"

"Oh, sure I do. Now let's see . . ." Rome scratched his beard. "Since you mentioned it, I do recall something. It's difficult to translate, but I suppose in history they were referred to as 'Atlantians'."

"_Che cosa?_"

"Atlantians. You know. A-T-L-A-N—"

"I know what you're talking about, Grandpa, but . . . How? Isn't that just a myth?"

"You would think so, wouldn't you?" said Rome, grinning. "I thought so too, until I heard a first-hand account of it. Atlantis had been a real place, once. A few thousand years before my time, in fact. They disappeared by the time my empire was fully established, but they left behind little traces—clues just waiting to be discovered. Shortly after, my civilization was wiped out."

"You keep saying that, but it's never the truth, is it . . ."

Rome and Italy glanced behind their shoulder simultaneously. Lovino didn't look up as he continued, a blade of grass twirling between his fingers.

"How can you be so sure that that's what they are if you can't even tell us your reason for being here? It's just a story. It's been proven fiction already."

"Roma," said Rome affectionately, "every story has a foundation of truth in it. Isn't that what I taught the two of you, when I told you my stories? They aren't just fiction, or myths. They are the heart of history."

Lovino continued to play with the surrounding vegetation, which were unfortunately suffering in his presence. He grew bored with his blade of grass and threw it down, plucking up another in its place. To the right of him sat a pile of mutilated plant material. "So what, you're saying that these _things_ had a history?"

"They existed long before we did. They were a great civilization that we would be jealous of. They saw so many things that even we cannot begin to imagine. I don't think them having a history is the right term here. You could say they are the creators of history."

Feliciano tugged on his grandfather's sleeve. "But I still don't understand something. What are these Frost—_Atlantians_, exactly?"

"Atlantians is only a rough transcript of their tongue. In their own language, their name is difficult to pronounce. We call them Atlantians. That's what they called themselves sometimes, too. Not everything the stories got wrong, however_—_Atlantis isn't located in the ocean, but it did sink."

"So where is it, then?"

Rome made a popping noise with his tongue and pointed downward. "Underground."

Feliciano scooted to the edge of his seat in excitement. "_Ve_, you're saying they were above ground at one point and some earthquake loosened the earth and caused their foundation to collapse?!"

Rome laughed. "Oh, Feli, you're thinking too far ahead. It's much simpler than you think."

"The Gaea Hypothesis?" Lovino proposed.

A hot, humid breeze swept across the park. The canopy of leaves above their heads rustled noisily. In the distance, a group of dogs trailed around their owners, barking with anticipation. The Tiber River was sparkling in the afternoon sun. The wind brought its musky scent over, washing the area with a very summer smell.

This moment of serenity and calm could only be a foretelling of some major disaster in the future. It was imminent. Only, everyone was surprised they had this long of peace to begin with.

Rome strummed his guitar, disrupting the atmosphere of silence. "Gaea Hypothesis? You could say that too. I think there's a better term, though."

"You're probably going to mention that it's not just a hypothesis, either?" said Lovino cynically.

"Brilliant deduction! The Earth is very much alive, boys. Take care to note that down."

Feliciano actually patted his pockets for any loose paper and then realized Rome was only being figurative.

"Yes," continued Rome, "the Atlantians were much more different in appearance many of thousands of years ago. They've mutated while underground. A few still retain their original shape, but the rest had lost their sanity and have risen from the earth, intent on wiping out all life."

"Why is that?" asked Feliciano.

"Who knows. Maybe it's because they don't want anyone else having what they cannot have."

"Doesn't that just make them selfish?"

Rome nodded sagely. "Very selfish. In fact, I think they're testing _our_ strength."

"For what?"

"So we're worthy of living on the surface. They believe that they're superior to us, and right now, they're right. They think that if we nations cannot get our heads together and show our strength, then they have the right to wipe us out and reclaim the Earth as their own. We're pretty much giving them the satisfaction, with all the bickering and what-not."

"Why can't we just share this planet?"

Rome sighed, for once revealing the immense weight of his true age. "It's not that simple, Feli. I like the way you think, but . . . this is real life. There's never an easy way."

"You still haven't told us what made them sink underground," Lovino said. "I don't think you should keep secrets from us, Gramps. Not at this point."

"You're right, Roma. So here it is: The Earth swallowed them up."

It shouldn't have been able to, but that phrase sent chills down Italy's spine. For some reason it felt more creepier than Rome had meant it to be. Was it just his imagination, or did the surrounding trees rustle at the mention?

Feliciano shifted closer to his grandfather, in hope that Rome would protect him from whatever evil was lurking nearby. He was one to believe in superstition, as he had mentioned to Matthew one time back at the World Conference Centre all those weeks ago, just right after the news of Antonio's untimely attack. What if the Earth was listening to everything they were saying?

"At that time, the planet was cataclysmic," Rome explained. "She couldn't sustain herself for any longer, unless she take in a separate life source to supply her own."

"So she swallowed up a powerful civilization and sapped their life from them," concluded Lovino.

"It was slow and painful. That's how the Atlantians mutated. That's how they lost their sanity, how they changed. It's irreversible."

Feliciano murmured uneasily, "_Ve_ . . . It kind of makes you want to feel sorry for them. I'm starting to see sense in your words, Grandpa, how this entire fiasco isn't only their fault, but also our own."

It was a terrible scenario for him to consider. The only reason why Atlantis was the primary candidate for assimilation was because they weren't needed anymore, so the Earth decided to drain their lifeforce. At the same time, the newest nations were still young and lacked power; it would only make sense for the Earth to take the strongest.

"They don't deserve your pity, Feli," said Lovino. "They think they're so strong? Right, because falling to the clutches of insanity proves one's strength." He snorted deftly. "I'm surprised they haven't torn each other apart thus far yet."

"Listen, _fratello_, I know it looks like they're entirely to blame, but what if their hatred stems from what _we've_ done?"

"And what's that?" Lovino challenged.

"We took their home away from them, didn't we? They have nothing left while we have everything. We're just as bad as they are."

"Their time was finished," Lovino blatantly stated. "Just like Gramps and all the other old civilizations. They _had_ to disappear because their time had come and a new era of superpowers had risen. It's the same for these . . . Atlantians. Doesn't matter what race it is. They obviously can't understand something as simple as that."

"In time, they will disappear. Most definitely," said Rome. "But I also believe they're trying to prove themselves before that happens. Behind their tortured minds, they truly do believe in what they are doing. They were once almighty and powerful. It would make sense, wouldn't it? That they'd_—_"

"Create some sort of spectacular so they could die out in a memorable way?" supplied Lovino.

Rome stared at his eldest grandson in mild amazement. "Yes, where . . . Where are all of these ideas coming from? I wouldn't put it so bluntly, but . . ."

"This conversation has been enlightening. Really. But you can't tell us what to do anymore. This whole"_—_Lovino waved his arms_—_"mission thing you're telling us_—_we don't have to do shit about it. It's our decision now, not yours. And I'm saying it's too dangerous to take up."

"_Fratello . . ._" began Veneziano. "Are you running away?"

"Not running away. No. I'm just starting to think. That's what all of us should be doing. From what I'm getting, it seems like these Atlantians don't like dying quietly and prefer us beating the living daylights out of them, and that's fine by me. If they want to die, we'll give them that."

"I'm not even entirely sure these are their reasons," said Rome uncertainly.

"Romano, are you sure that we shouldn't try to stop them at Pompeii?" asked Feliciano. He wanted to be certain that leaving Pompeii as it was wouldn't affect the state of the world_—_or future state, in the case of global annihilation.

"I don't see what difference it would make. These suicidal bastards will still return, one way or another," said Lovino.

"Hm, okay."

Still, something was bugging Italy. He felt like he was missing a big piece of the puzzle, but he didn't know what so he couldn't ask Rome. The old empire had mentioned before that the Atlantians went insane and lost track of their forms and mutated. But there were also a few that still retained their memories and awareness. Did that mean there was a neutral party out there that could potentially see reason and aid the humans against their brethren's plan?

Was the idea too far-fetched? It could be possible, if they managed to find the original Atlantians who were still sane. Then again, they must have hid themselves better than their crazier counterparts, so searching them out would prove difficult.

And another problem: What if these more sober Atlantians had the same idea as their mutated brothers? What if they wanted to eradicate the humans too, and return themselves to the surface?

_No, that can't be right,_ Feliciano thought. _I saw many Frost Men on the roof that night and all of them looked the same. There weren't any 'sane-looking' Atlantians there, so it must be that they were either neutral or working on a plot of their own._

And Feliciano didn't even want to think about the latter possibility. If the Frost Men were so intelligent with their Operation Genocide, then the Atlantians had to have been geniuses if they _did_ end up coming up with a plan of their own.

That was the part he was missing. _What were the Atlantians doing at the present time?_

If they knew what the Frost Men were planning, they would have tried to stop their brothers by now. But they didn't. So Operation Genocide must have been supplying their own gains.

Feliciano was too afraid to mention this to his grandfather and brother, so he chose to stay silent. Which wasn't like him. Lovino noticed this. Rome would have, too, but he was busy at the vendor cart buying ice-cream for the three of them.

"You're too quiet, Veneziano," Lovino spoke, the latter half of his sentence getting cropped by the sudden pick-up of wind.

"Oh! Huh . . . ?"

He heard Lovino sigh, but he was too afraid to turn around. He was scared that Lovino would see the expression on his face, even though South Italy himself was facing away in the opposite direction.

"What do you think we should do after this?" said Romano instead.

Feliciano took a second to think about the inquiry, his anxious hands rubbing at his sweaty palms. "Er . . . We can . . . get that transmitter blueprint, maybe? Get it to America and, um, he'll assemble the parts and then we'll distribute the transmitter to everybody. But first we have to get into the church and meet up with the mafia. Afterwards, we should really call another World Meeting just in case everyone's on the same page, and_—_"

Lovino then said something, but his words were lost in the wind. Feliciano asked him to repeat.

"You mentioned the Potato Bastard once and then I got angry at you, right?"

"Huh? Why are you bringing him up now?"

"When I first woke up, you were worried about his mental state. And I blew you off."

Feliciano bristled uneasily, like a cat on high-alert. "So?" he replied slowly, voice rising in anticipation. "Isn't that what you usually do?"

"I'm sorry about that. I should have been more . . ." Lovino forced the word through gritted teeth. ". . . _con-si-der-ate_." Ugh, the word tasted foreign on his tongue. He choked like saying it physically pained him. Then he restarted in a much more dignified manner, though his tone was still disdainful. "I don't like the bastard, but we're going to have to need everyone's cooperation in order to end this madness. You need to figure out what's going on with him."

"You mean . . ." Feliciano grew flustered. "N-no way! I can't! He hates me, I'm sure of it!"

Lovino turned around and his attention was fully trained on his brother. His expression was of the utmost 'WTF'. "Did you even _once_ ask him how he felt? Did you even once bother to ask what was wrong? Did you just assume all this time? That_—_what? That he _hated_ you?"

"That's what it seemed like! He was so cold toward me, and I didn't know what to make of it_—_"

"Then you _ask_."

"I know! It's just_—_" Italy hung his head. "I was scared."

"Scared of what?"

"That he changed!" He'd blurted the last part, and he hadn't meant to. Feliciano clamped both hands over his mouth.

Lovino narrowed his eyes. "That he changed. You're serious. Why? Because of the Frost Men, somehow?"

Feliciano nodded slightly.

The older Italian brother allowed his head to thump back into the bench. He blinked up at the trees, tsking lightly. "Look, that's just some paranoid crap you're forcing yourself to believe. Don't be ridiculous, Feli. That Potato Bastard's as tough as a rock. Nothing can faze him or change him, for the better or for the worst. Just go ask him what's wrong and I'm sure things will turn out all right."

"_Fratello_, are you acting or are you actually trying to be a good brother?"

Lovino scoffed at his twin's ludicrous notion, head rolling to the side in exasperation. "What are you talking about_—_being a good brother. I'm always a good brother."

Feliciano smiled. "Okay. I'll go ask him."

"You sure? You're not scared?"

"Nope. I was before, because I was terrified that my assumption would turn out to be true. I guess I'll never know until I ask him. Ludwig's my friend and I have to support him through every step, no matter what happens. Thanks, _fratello_."

Of course South Italy was not overly fond of Germany, but just this once he'd let his brother near the macho potato. Feliciano needed this, and everything he'd always done was for his brother. He had hoped, in doing this, it would be one step closer to redeeming himself after making his brother sad and blaming everything on his grandfather.

He was glad that Feliciano had managed to forgive his previous actions at the cafe, even though the younger Italian didn't openly express his acquittal. The message was there nonetheless.

Lovino glanced off to the side, embarrassed. "Where the hell is that old geezer?" he muttered. "Does it take _that long_ to buy ice-cream?"

* * *

**Some Extras That Don't Really Need To Be In The Story But Are**

"_Signor_," said the ice-cream man, "are you sure you know your currency?"

"Yes, yes, I do!" Rome insisted. "Hold on . . ."

_He's been counting his change for a whole five minutes so far,_ the ice-cream man noted.

"I got it!" Rome proclaimed proudly, like a two-year-old child figuring out that seven comes after six. "Here you go, good man!"

"What?" The ice-cream man held up a strange coin. "You sure this is the right currency? Because I've never seen this coin before."

Rome face morphed into a horrified 'Oh crap!'. He snatched the Roman penny from the man's hand and replaced it with the proper equivalent. "Haha . . . sorry about that. That was an antique that I'd rather not give away~"

"Er, okay."

The ice-cream man handed off the frozen dessert and wondered why Rome was still standing there.

"Can I . . . help you, _signor_?"

Rome leaned against the counter and stared affectionately toward the direction of his grandsons. "Do you see them? Aren't they cute?"

The ice-cream man nodded (to the first question). He would have found it weird that this total stranger was talking to him about other total strangers, of whom he found _cute_ no less, but he recognized a fair resemblance between this man and the twin boys, so he supposed they were related.

Upon closer inspection, he realized that he indeed knew these boys.

"Are you their father?"

"Nope!" Rome grinned. "I'm their granddad."

"Uh . . . Sure."

By the way, audience, Rome did _not_ look like an old man, so his proclamation was met with suspicion.

"I feel like they're sorting out something, so I don't want to interrupt them," Rome continued.

"I've never seen you before," said the ice-cream man, of whom I shall now call Rodrigo, because he _does_ have a name. "I've seen them, but you're never seen with them."

"I'm a more of a home-person," said Rome, batting aside his inquiries. "So, do they come here often?"

"_Si_, every week. The younger one takes walks along the river of this area every evening, and he brings along a lot of cats. He likes to sleep on the bench during the weekend afternoons, as well. The older one is a troublemaker. He's the reason why I'm selling outside and not in my store."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry about him; he's going to get a long lecture from me. At least I know my youngest is still well-behaved~"

"Anyway, you should probably get the ice-cream to them before they melt," said Rodrigo. "It has been a nice chat, _signor_."

"Yes, you too~!"

Rome approached the Italies with the ice-cream. They noticed and looked up: Lovino in annoyance, Feliciano in excitement.

"About time, bastard!" Lovino snapped.

"Ice-cream~" said Feliciano.

He handed off the frozen treat and sat down on the bench, sighing with content as his aching joints relaxed. Rome decided to get his lecture over with. He didn't like giving lectures. It made him feel old. Sure, he was a few thousand years old, but he still had another few dozen ahead of him!

Hopefully.

"Lovino, I've been hearing from a bird in the tree that you've been terrorizing the neighbourhood." Rome tilted his head downward, so he was looking at Romano through the crown of his eyes. "Is this true?"

"Terrorizing the neighbourhood?" Lovino scoffed lightly, straight out ignoring the question. Well done, sir. "What reason would I have to terrorize the neighbourhood when I'm obviously at Parliament all day? Besides, I wouldn't call it _terrorizing_ . . . It's more like illegal business."

"The poor man is roofless because of you!"

"He was begging for retribution, so I handed it to him!"

Rome groaned and covered his face with both hands. "What am I going to do with you? Jupiter, help me."

What a fail of a lecture, Rome.

Feliciano licked his ice-cream innocently. He liked ice-cream.

* * *

**Why did I put that last part with the ice-cream man up? I don't know - my sister asked the same question. When I wrote it, I was thinking pretty much, "Because why not." **

**Progress is slow, I know, but they will get to the Roman catacombs underground and they will obtain that illusive transmitter.**

**You'll also get to see what happens to Canada and America and everyone else that is and will be on the North American continent. So thank you for reading and stayed tuned!**

**Next chapter: Arthur's death.  
**

* * *

**On a side note as well as a heads-up, I've been ambient these past few weeks because I got started on a new Hetalia fic titled _Stolen._ Don't look for it; I don't think I'm going to upload it for another few weeks or even a month. What is it about, you ask?  
**

**Pirates. **


	16. XVI: Desolate

_"Mum?"_

_Britannia turned around and pushed tiny Albion back. "Not now, Arthur. Not in the meeting hall. Go and play with your brothers." (1)_

_"Caledonia is always bullying me and he stinks. I want to know what you're talking about." (2)_

_"Okay, you can stay around, but remain quiet."_

_Arthur watched with vague interest as the meeting continued. He didn't really understand the term of 'invasion' or 'conquest' quite yet, nor did he understand why everyone shivered when the word 'annexation' was mentioned. He asked his mother for the initial explanation after the meeting adjourned._

_"It's difficult, Arthur. You shouldn't be worried about something like this."_

_"Is it about those guys across the strait?" _

_"Something like that."_

_"They're going to . . ." Arthur played the word in his head, and deciding that he was pronouncing it right, he voiced it aloud. "Uh . . . invade us?"_

_Britannia chuckled. "I'm sure it won't be too bad, though. They are fair people. They understand law and politics."_

_"Are we going to be okay?"_

_"Don't you worry about something like that. We'll be fine."_

_"But are you fine about someone taking over your island?"_

_"Arthur, we can always put up a fight, or we can let them come and not lose any lives. Which do you think is the better choice?"_

_"Um . . . the ladder?"_

_"The_ latter_, sweetheart."_

_"OI, WHERE ARE YOU, YE TWIT?!"_

_Arthur hid behind his mother's skirt. "Help me. It's him."_

_Caledonia burst through the door, holding up a tiny wooden dagger and bow. A sack of arrows were positioned over his back, but the strap appeared much too big for the red-head nation's scrawny shoulders. _

_"Mum!" Caledonia hid his weapons behind his back and grinned sheepishly. "Hi!"_

_"Hello, Cal. What do you have there?"_

_"Er . . . I . . . It's for . . ."_

_"You suck, Cal!" Arthur stuck his tongue out at his older brother. "You can't even aim straight! How are you ever going to fight off anyone like that if you can't even hit me?"_

_Britannia sighed. "Arthur, you're not making the situation any better."_

_"I can SO hit stuff!" Caledonia retorted. "How about I try it out now, eh?"_

_"You two, stop fighting for once. Here, come over to the bed and I'll tell you a story."_

_Caledonia lowered his bow and pouted fiercely before padding over to his mother. Albion kicked him in the shin before scrambling on to the other side of the bed to avoid Caledonia's retaliation. _

_"Now, now . . . Let's see. Did you hear about the story of the time I met an angel?"_

_"You met an angel?!" Arthur's eyes were shining._

_"Yes. A real one."_

_"That's just girly," said Caledonia._

_Britannia swatted him on the head. "Mind your manners, Scott. Anyway, yes, I've met an angel. But this angel couldn't leave his home so it was a difficult journey to meet him."_

_"How did you go about meeting him?" Arthur asked.  
_

_"Both of you understand that to meet an angel, you must die first, yes?"_

_"You DIED?!"_

_"It wasn't anything too serious. In order to achieve the highest point of enlightenment and power, one must meet Death himself, first. And that's something I must teach the two of you now."_

_"What is it?" said Caledonia and Albion at the same time._

_"The Britannia Angel."_

The Britannia Angel: a transformation spell capable of augmenting one's magical power. It is activated when one's life-force has ceased or is on the brink of death. There are severe consequences for those that choose to initiate the spell before any of the requirements are met.

* * *

_"Damn it, Artie. Ye aint' doin' it right."_

_Arthur threw his bow down. "Well, if you think you're so bloody great and awesome, why don't_ you_ try it, huh?"_

_Scott bent down and picked up the bow from the dusty soil, blowing on it and smoothing it over carefully. He took an arrow from Arthur's quiver and showed him how it would be shot. The both of them were into their early teens now._

_"Ye have to follow through," said Caledonia. "Otherwise, you won't hit your mark. Don't just leave the string goin' halfway. Here, you try."_

_Arthur took the bow back, grumbling some unintelligible complaints. He mounted his arrow and pulled back on the string, aiming for that deer in the distance. _

_"Take a few breaths," Scott instructed. "It may feel like an eternity to you, but it isn't. Take your time."_

_Albion counted to five. The deer's ears perked, and its neck jerked up from its meal._

Now!

_The arrow sailed through the air, disappearing momentarily from reality and later materializing in a tree trunk next to the prey. The deer fled immediately._

_"I'm complete bullocks at this."_

_"No, ye jus' need time," said Scott. "Keep trying. Aim for the tree ye jus' hit."_

_Instead Arthur lowered his bow. "Why are you being so helpful, Scott? Usually, you'd push me around and laugh at me for not getting something right."_

_"I would be, but I promised Mum I'd teach ye. Besides, if I'm so way above ye, and yer still down there, ye wouldn't be much of a challenge to me in the future. I like competition, ye know."_

Of course he'd be doing this for himself,_ Arthur thought._

_Caledonia patted him on the head. "At least yer making some progress, unlike _other_ people."_

_Arthur threw the offending hand off of him. He even landed a punch on Scott's arm for added effect, but the red-head ignored the hit. Probably because it was such a fail attempt. _

_"Come on, Artie. Let's get some lunch."_

_"I guess I am somewhat hungry," Arthur admitted reluctantly._

_The brothers sat down on a small tarp. A small basket of fruits and bread were positioned off to the side. Caledonia split his share and gave it to Arthur. The meal past by in relative peace. Peace being taunts, insults and light kicks exchanged, that is. _

_"I'm thinkin' of leavin' the house soon," said Scott, gazing wistfully up at the blue sky. "We're getting older now. It's time we ought to leave Mother. We don't need her anymore."_

_Arthur wanted to argue he still wanted to stay with Britannia. But he settled for a shake of his head. "No, Scott. I don't think we should rush it. We may still need Mum's guidance."_

_"That's what you think, 'cause yer such a momma's boy."_

_"What'd you say?!"_

_Arthur threw aside his bread, which was quickly stolen by a chipmunk, and he bent over to wrangle at Scott's neck. _

_"You take that back!"_

_"Ye. Make. Me!"_

_Albion shoved him backward. "You're not even worth the kill."_

_Caledonia rubbed at his neck, glaring at his brother. _

_Truthfully, Arthur just didn't want Scott to leave so soon. He didn't like to admit it, but if Scott up and went, there would be no one left in the household to play fight with, or banter with. He'd be all alone. No, it wasn't like he was going to_ miss_ Scott. The family wouldn't be complete without him, that was all._

_But the other half of him, the more reasonable side, proposed that it was about time Scott left the home. _

_"Are you going to miss us?" came such a feeble question, it was nearly unnoticeable._

_"Miss?" Scott blinked a few times. "Miss, who? You? Or Mum?"_

_"Idunno. Whoever you want, I guess."_

_Scott took his time to think about it. "Hmm . . . Well, it's not like I won't be seein' the both of you around, right? I won't miss ye guys, no."_

_"I see."_

_"Don't look so glum! I'll visit sometimes."_

_Arthur just never expected that 'visit' to be a raid._

* * *

_"Bloody Saxons."  
_

_Albion grazed his sword upon the ground and wiped sweat from his brow. It had been some years since the Roman conquest and his time was slowly delving into the Middle Ages. Arthur was grown and older and more able now. He didn't need his mother's guide so much as before, but this caused him to fight more frequently with his brothers. _

_There had also been a number of threats across the sea, namely one blond fellow called Gaul. Arthur didn't particularly like Gaul. He was a total pervert. (3)_

_And then there were the Saxons. They inhabited a great deal of his mother's province and Arthur didn't appreciate the chaos they were stirring. Arthur actually called Caledonia for help, but Scott refused because he didn't want to be on the same side as his brother. _

_So now Albion was fighting the battle alone. A_ losing_ battle._

_Tomorrow, they would meet on the battlefield, and tomorrow judgment would be handed down to the loser. Arthur couldn't afford to lose._

_"Take it easy," said Britannia, bandaging a wound of his. "This struggle is just to settle a dispute. It doesn't need to turn into civil war."_

_"But isn't that what it is?" Arthur said. "Scott completely ditched me and now that the Romans are gone, we have no military power. There is nothing we can do but fight and hold our ground."_

_Britannia tied a knot in his bandage and tightened it. __Arthur hissed in pain, spitting colourful curses as the more sensitive part of his injury was lit on fire._

_"They won't leave, Arthur," Britannia said, giving him a reassuring pat on the lap. "The only thing we can do is accept them and include them into our society."_

_"If only it were so easy," Albion grumbled back. He tried shifting into a more comfortable position, but his body was riddled with bruises, making the feat impossible._

_"Sweetheart, you won't know until you try. What's wrong with opening our hearts and letting them in?"_

_"There's nothing wrong. I just can't afford to think like that."  
_

_"Then how will you ever expect yourself to win?"_

_"I don't, Mother. We have already lost."_

* * *

_So Albion marched off to war. There he fought with every breath to secure the land, knowing that in the end, his trials would have been for nothing. Arthur knew that deep down his mother was right. Fighting was futile; the Saxons were too strong.  
_

_But he still fought. As men fell to their knees around him, he forged on. Even as his shield collapsed, he continued to swing his sword**—**over and over again. He fought until his lungs threatened to explode from within him._

_And then a surprising revelation._

_"Scott!" Arthur panted in large heaves. "Scott, you traitor!"_

_Caledonia smirked. "Ye should 'ave seen this comin', Brother."_

_"You traitor! You should be fighting against the Saxons, not with them!"_

_"No, you're wrong. You're wrong, because ye see, I'm doing this for Mother. She wants this, didn't ye know? The era of the Britons has come to an end. It's time ye understand."_

_"Shut the bloody hell up! You just don't like me and want every excuse to beat me around!"_

_"Well." Scott shrugged. "There's that too."_

___Arthur noted with some disdain that Caledonia appeared rather frightening with his sword and armour. The northern nation had gotten stronger and bigger these past few decades, and he was a whole foot taller than Arthur. Hell, Arthur would have even admitted the red-head_ intimidated_ him somewhat. But no. He wasn't about to voice this out loud, especially on the battlefield against his own kin._

_Arthur raised his blade. "If you are so insistent in fighting me, then so be it. Just don't go crying to Mother when you lose."_

_"Me?" Caledonia laughed heartily. "Me, lose. Don't make me laugh, little Artie. There's no way in 'ell I'm going to lose. You're the one that's dying today. Take a look around ya. Yer men are dead and dying. And I still 'ave my army."_

_"Damn you, Scott!" Arthur rushed at him in a blind fury. "Damn you, I'll never forgive you!"_

_"Hahaha! Does my face look like it's begging for forgiveness?"_

_Caledonia likewise raised his sword and blocked Arthur's moves. The northern nation didn't appear like he was trying, although he was being pushed back by Albion's advances. When Caledonia finally had enough, he planted a foot forward and proceeded to hack back viciously at Arthur's sword. _

_"You'll always be the weakling you were born as," Scott said. "In my eyes, you will always be the small, crybaby Arthur, my little brother. That will never change."_

_"I HATE YOU!" Arthur screamed in his face, eyes blurry behind tears. "I KNEW YOU WERE A NO-GOOD ASS, BUT I NEVER EXPECTED YOU TO BETRAY US!"_

_Caledonia's eyes flashed. He kicked Arthur in the abdomen, sending him flying backward into the soggy mud._

_"Betray . . . US?" he repeated. "Us? What US?! Do ye even understand what Mother wants?! Yer a selfish bastard, that's what ye are!"_

_Arthur crawled backward as Scott advanced on him. He bumped into a corpse and stopped, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. With nowhere else to go, he gazed fearfully up at his elder brother._

_"And ye know what?" continued Caledonia, green eyes narrowed. "I could care less about what happens today. The fact of the matter is, someone has to die. And it isn't goin' to be me. Do ye know who the unlucky tribute's goin' to be, Artie?"_

_"Why?" Arthur sobbed, his voice quaking violently. "Why are you doing this?"_

_"I told ye already, didn't I? It's what Mother wants."_

_Caledonia was so close now; Arthur could almost hear his breathing._

_Albion shook his head frantically. "I don't . . . I don't want to die! I don't want to die, Scott! Please . . . !"_

_"No one does," said Scott tenderly, and for a moment there, he sounded almost sympathetic, as if he knew the feeling or gone through it one point in his life. But it was quickly replaced by an unpleasant sneer. "We're nations; death is not something we should be afraid of. It'll be over quick, I promise." _

_Caledonia raised his blade. Arthur quickly scanned his surroundings, eyes darting from side-to-side feverishly, looking for any means of escape. Scott gazed pityingly at him._

_"It's for the best, little brother, you know that," he scolded patiently. "If it's for the good of the country, wouldn't you want to give your life for its sake? This is the same."_

_"N-no! I don't want____**—**_GET AWAY FROM ME!"

_Caledonia pushed Arthur back down into the soil with his foot as he was just getting up, pointing the tip of his blade to Arthur's throat. Albion gagged behind the pressure of his constricting armour. _

_"Just die already," spat Scott. "Just die and this can all be over. You'll see then."_

_Arthur gripped his sword and slashed upwards. Scott deflected it with a simple swish of his own blade. He kicked Arthur's weapon away._

_"Nice try, but this is the end."_

_Arthur glared at his brother in the utmost hatred. "Then I'm dragging you to hell with me."_

_"Those are some brave words, Artie. In a way, I guess I'm glad you were my brother. I wouldn't ask for another."_

_Caledonia raised his sword and brought it down on Albion's heart. Arthur gasped, blood bubbling beneath his throat. Something behind his head snapped and it was as if a powerful electric current had activated. Almost instantaneously, a white light exploded from behind his eyes and suddenly the battlefield was gone._

_"There had to have been a loser from the start," he heard Caledonia's voice faintly. "I suppose it's better if we both lost, eh?"_

_The white faded to black, and Arthur heard nothing after that._

* * *

_Britannia hadn't expected the news of Albion's death. She knew that he would lose, but to lose his_ life_?_

_"Wh-what happened?" she asked, her knees buckling beneath her. "Albion's . . . ?"  
_

_"We were outnumbered horribly," reported the soldier who had survived the conflict. "We would have all perished if it hadn't been for his efforts."_

_"Don't tell me . . ." Britannia raised her head in growing horror. "Don't tell me he used Britannia Angel."_

_The soldier nodded solemnly. "We have proposed a treaty between the Saxons. It shall signal the unity of the land. With it, we will have peace. Albion's sacrifice would not be in vain."_

_Despite this news, Britannia brought her head into her hands and wept, for the son she knew was dead and gone._

* * *

_In 927 AD, the English lands were unified. The Kingdom of England was born.  
_

_"Do you, Arthur Kirkland, hereby swear your remaining life to the land of Britannia, its people and its beliefs? Do you swear eternal duty as the nation personification of our great land?"  
_

_Arthur bowed his head. "I do."_

_The bishop rested the crown upon his head and lifted him to his feet. Arthur turned and faced the crowd._

_"LONG LIVE THE KINGDOM OF ENGLAND! LONG LIVE BRITANNIA! LONG LIVE THE KINGDOM OF ENGLAND! LONG LIVE GREAT BRITAIN!"_

_Along with England, Scotland had also unified up north, in 843 AD. After the initial celebration of England's creation, Britannia had reintroduced Arthur to his northern brother._

_"Be good to each other," she said. "There's no need to fight anymore."_

_"Oh no, there's always a need to fight," said Scotland, winking at England playfully. "Isn't there, little brother?"_

_England smirked. "Watch your back, Scott. Albion may have lost, but I won't."_

_Britannia sighed. England and Albion, and Scotland and Caledonia, no matter how similar they appeared to each other, just weren't the same people. Appearance-wise, yes, they were the same people before they died, but their personalities were different, and their memories were different. It was going to take some getting used to. At the least, both Arthur and Scott managed to retain their rivalry even after their reincarnation._

_But this was what she wanted all along, for them to unite and become their proper nations. Even if it meant losing her in the process. It was only inevitable they'd grow up one day. Britannia wanted to help their growth along. The later she waited, the more it would have hurt her sons, and she didn't want that._

_She visited Arthur's bedchambers one morning to find him still sleeping. She stroked his hair.  
_

_"Arthur?"_

_England mumbled something and rolled over. He wasn't quite an adult yet, perhaps 17-18 years in appearance. Still a teenager. Still a child, in her eyes._

_"Arthur, I'm going to be leaving for quite a while. Will you be all right while I'm gone?"_

_"Where're you goin'?" he slurred sleepily._

_"Oh, just away. See, you're a country now. That means you don't need Mum anymore."_

_"It'd still be nice to have you around."_

_"I know, but the world doesn't work that way."_

_Arthur was silent; he probably fell back asleep. Britannia smiled and kissed her son on the forehead. _

_"I love you, Arthur."_

_Later Arthur awoke confused, without a single memory of Britannia ever being in the room with him. He shrugged off the occurrence and got ready for the day. Little did he know that Britannia would never come home again. He was told by the King that she had disappeared because her nation had been replaced by a new one._

_Arthur bought it and his life went on. All that time, he assumed that Britannia left without ever saying goodbye. He bottled up his feelings as he was taught and performed his duties. Eventually, he forgot all about Britannia and his past. It was probably better that way too. He was England now, and he didn't need anyone else._

* * *

_The year was 1535._

_"The Kingdom of England will be abolished soon."  
_

_"Hold on a second," said Arthur, shooting up from his seat, "I never agreed to this."_

_"The Council has voted," said the King. "We will be annexing Wales to our union and will be renaming our jurisdiction as England and Wales. It is the decreed successor of the Kingdom and England. There is no further discussion on this matter. The Court is dismissed."_

_Arthur shuffled out of the meeting hall, thoroughly perplexed. This seemed like a huge jump in their routine, coming out and announcing some annexation to a nation he'd never heard of._

_At least, Arthur_ thought_ he'd never heard of a Wales before. Maybe his mother mentioned once he had a brother named Wales? _

_Did it matter? Arthur was too busy with his duties to care about a non-existent brother. Scotland was being his usual bastard self and ruining everything. And that France fellow was seriously a creep._

_England climbed the stairs to his bedroom and opened the door. He was shocked to find a young man around his age staring at a painting of his late mother._

_"What are you doing here, git?" Arthur demanded. "Did anyone give you permission to be in here?"_

_The young man turned his head. Arthur's breath caught in his throat. _

_It wasn't that this fellow was around his age. No, this person looked_ exactly_ like him. Arthur was having trouble processing what he was seeing. Identical blond hair and eyes. No . . . the tint of green was off._

_Did he have a twin? If so, why had Arthur never seen him before?_

_He had his sword drawn in a split second. "Who are you?" _

_The young man raised his hands in surrender, his face impassive._

_"My King told me that I'd find you here," he spoke. "It's nice to meet you, England. My name is Wales."_

_Arthur's grip on his sword faltered. "Wh . . . Who?"_

_Wales slouched as if he'd heard the same thing a dozen times. "I'm your brother," he said wearily. "You know, the nation to the left of you on the map?"_

_Arthur blinked._

_"The one who has the weird accent."_

_"Huh? Oh, you! Yes, I know you. I've seen you sometimes. I kicked your ass in the 13th Century."_

_Wales slapped his forehead. _

_"No, I didn't mean offense!" Arthur sheathed his sword and approached Wales slowly, poking him in the cheek. "I mean, I don't see you around much."_

_"What are you talking about? I'm always there."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yeah, and you're going to see me around a lot now." Wales stuck his hand out. "So, nice to meet you."_

_Arthur stared at the hand, and then took it. "Likewise, I suppose."_

_England had promised himself a long time ago that being alone was fine with him, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad with Wales around. That is, until he found out Wales' true views on him. The Welsh nation only ever expressed his true feelings when he was drunk—which was the same thing for England himself. Wales was just as bad as Scotland. England felt slightly betrayed._

_"Hey, do you have a name?"_

_Wales blinked. "A name?"_

_"A human name?"_

_"No. I never thought I would need one, so I didn't bother remembering what name Mother gave me."_

_"I'll give you one, then!" Arthur tapped his chin. "How about Wally?"_

_". . . You can't be serious."_

_"You like dragons, right?"_

_"Sure."_

_"Draco?"_

_"I don't want to listen to you anymore."_

_"Wait, wait! What about Edward?"_

_"You named me after the man who invaded my lands, killed my ruler, and conquered my kingdom?"_

_"I don't see why not."_

_It certainly never got boring in England's house, Wales admitted. England was seen as the main patron of their union, and Wales himself was often associated as the 'lackey', but that was fine with him. If someone did decide to invade their country, they would screw with England instead of him._

_Now all they had to do was convince Ireland to join their union. Scotland would never say yes unless he was losing money or dying, so convincing him at the present moment wouldn't do any good._

_"Hey, Arthur?"_

_"What is it?"_

_"Did you know Mum before . . . You know, before you became England?"_

_Arthur scratched his head. "I don't know. Maybe. I don't remember. She tells me I did. Why are you bringing this up?"_

_"I watched you," Wales said. "I watched you and Scott fight."_

_"So what?"_

_"I saw her heart break, too."_

_Arthur momentarily experienced guilt, which was quickly replaced by anger. He lashed out at Wales._

_"I'm not Albion, Edward. I'm England. I could care less about what she felt. What happened back then doesn't concern me. Don't you ever bring her up again, you hear me?"_

_"You always avoid the topic whenever I bring her up."_

_"Be quiet. I told you I don't want to talk about it."_

_"You're hurt, aren't you? That she left without saying anything."_

_"Don't," Arthur warned.  
_

_Wales knew what England was thinking, though. Given Arthur's situation, it was easy striking close to home. "____She won't blame you; she has never blamed you_. You're just afraid to confront your past_**—**_"

_"Don't." Arthur shut his eyes. "I don't want to talk about this."_

_"Arthur, she's my mother too. Whether you like it or not, this_ is_ my business, and if I don't act like an older brother to you, then Mother's memory would be ruined."_

_Arthur shook his head in denial, clutching at his head. Vague memories of his pre-reincarnation flashed through his mind, revealing to him all he was before Albion's death. "Shut up," he murmured to his thoughts. "Shut up."  
_

_Wales was absolutely resolute. He marched up to Arthur and stated into his ear, "It's not that you don't remember. It's that you don't _want_ to remember."_

_Arthur whirled around and nailed Wales in the jaw. "SHUT UP!"_

_The force of the punch sent the Welsh nation reeling backward. Wales straightened, wiping the blood away from his mouth. __Surpri__singly, after what he just experienced, he__ appeared disappointed rather than angry._ Arthur took a step back, disbelief clouding his innocent features. What have I done?

_"Hiding your feelings isn't going to make everything better or bring her back, little brother," Wales finally spoke, after a long silence had stretched between them. "Get out of the past and move on."_

_"I . . . Brother, I . . ." Arthur stared at his hands in horror. "I didn't mean . . . I'm so____**—**_"  


_Wales marched out of the room, and Arthur, shocked still at his own outburst of violence, was alone again. After all that effort to make sure he would keep his brother forever at his side, Arthur had lost just about the only person in the world who he could've been close with. And this was the last straw for Wales. He was never coming back.  
_

* * *

_"Engwand?"  
_

_"Yes?" The great empire peered down at the tot hiding behind his leg. He scooped the child up onto his lap. "What is it, America?"_

_"Do you have a famiwy?"_

_Arthur blinked at the odd and random inquiry. "What sort of question is that, Alfred? I have you, don't I?"_

_"I know. I wanted to know if you had any other famiwy. It must be wonewy living all by ywourself."_

_"It's not lonely at all. I have other colonies, too."_

_America shook his head. "No, no, no! I meant do you have any blood famiwy?"_

_"Blood? Oh, you mean members who share my DNA?"_

_"Yeah!"_

_"Well, I have my brothers. Do they count?"_

_"How come I never see 'em around?"_

_"Because they left me a long time ago. You could say I'm lonely, but family splits up from time-to-time. It happens."_

_"Is that all?"_

_Arthur was silent for a split second, considering whether he should tell America. He decided in the end that Alfred didn't need to know._ He doesn't need to know that my brothers hate my guts.

_"That's all."_

_Alfred's face brightened. "Okay!" _

_"Yes, now all that's left for you to do," said England, tapping the little colony on the nose, "is to be a good boy and stay with me forever. Can you do that?"_

_"I don't want Engwand to be lonely and sad, so . . . sure!"_

_England smiled____**—**_a genuine, affectionate smile. "Thank you, Alfred."

_The child beamed and hopped off his guardian's lap, darting off on another adventure. Arthur left him to his own devices and returned back to his work._

_Yes, he thought. I'll be fine. America will be with me, after all._

* * *

_And then the Revolution struck. Disaster followed._

_"You told me once that family splits up from time-to-time," said the now-grown America, staring down at the great empire kneeling in the dirt. "You said it happens. Why does this surprise you so much, England?"_

_"Because you promised," the empire replied, his body wracking with sobs. "You promised . . ." _

_He didn't realize how much of a parallel this event was to Caledonia's betrayal against Albion, because he couldn't remember. He always ended up as the one on the ground, begging for mercy. He was always the one betrayed. Always. _

_"You promised you would stay, Alfred. So why . . . Why did you leave?"_

_Alfred lifted his head and stared across from him. He couldn't bear to see his former guardian so pitiful. It was true when he said that he didn't like seeing England so sad and lonely. He just didn't anticipate his revolution to be the one thing that caused that. _

_"I won't leave forever. From time-to-time, right? When the moment calls for it, I'll return. Just not anytime soon."_

_"How can you_ say_ that?"_

_"We're family, aren't we? Figure it out for yourself."_

_America rounded up his troops and signalled for a clear-out. The American army retreated from the battlefield, worn out but glowing with pride and triumph. It was victory. A bitter one, but a victory nonetheless._

_England watched as his former charge faded into the gloomy rain, the backs of their blue uniforms dimming out. _

_And just like what happened with Caledonia, Arthur knew that America would have wanted independence at some point. He was only denying the future so he could avoid the heartbreak again. How many times now had it been that someone left him?_

_Too many times to count._

* * *

_Arthur? _

_Arthur, I'm going to be gone for quite a while. Will you be all right while I'm gone?_

_I'm thinkin' of leaving the house soon._

_It's not that you don't remember. It's that you don't want to remember._

_There had to have been a loser from the start. I suppose it's better if we both lost, eh?  
_

_Why does this surprise you so much?_

_____I don't want Engwand to be lonely and sad, so . . . sure!_

_Get out of the past and move on.  
_

_We're family, aren't we? Figure it out for yourself.  
_

_I love you. _

* * *

England's eyes snapped open, and he was met with total blackness. The air was quiet, and he noted with bitter irony that he was alone.

_Of course. Why am I not surprised?_

* * *

**(1) Albion was the name for England a long time ago.  
**

**(2) Caledonia was the ancient name for modern day Scotland.**

**(3) The area now known as France. I like to think Gaule (or Gaul) is like France's father figure, not exactly France himself.**

* * *

******Leave a review - let me know what you think!**

**********Personally, I find England's life very sad. It makes you wonder why and how he turned out the way he did, all possessive and wanting some company. He has always been alone, and it seems like anyone he comes across is only temporary and fake.  
**

**NONE of this is historically accurate; it's not meant to be. It's just a story. If you know the UK's true story, good for you! I wish I did, but reading it up in a matter of hours is all the learning I'm going to need.**

**And that's what happens when a nation dies. At least, according to my headcanon.  
**

**Oh, yeah, and by the way, Caledonia is not THAT much of an ass. Never fear; he's actually not Scotland, just his past reincarnation. Phew, right?**


	17. XVII: Team

**I know this is quite late, but I'm been uber busy with school. At least we're getting sun over here for a change. Salute to spring~!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The afternoon spurred on sluggishly. A boat rolled down the Tiber River and that was about the only scenery they had that whole hour at the park.

Rome watched his grandsons finish the ice-cream while he played his guitar.

His music was sad. This was probably the last time he would ever see his grandsons and his anguish showed through his music. But he was smiling as sang, because he knew that they would be all right without him. They had been before, and they would always be.

"After this, I have to leave," said Rome.

"What?"

"I know this is sudden, but there is compensation for me seeing you. The past is not supposed to meet the present, do you understand? In order for me to pay the universe back for this meeting, I must . . ." Rome faltered. "No. Never mind. Let's just enjoy the last moments we have with each other."

"You're not going to run off and die, are you?" said Lovino suspiciously.

"No, nothing like that! It's just . . . I made a promise that I would not see you until my two thousand years were finished, but I broke that pact midway and it will be another thousand years before I can see you again. I'm sorry I couldn't tell the both of you sooner."

"What is this pact?" said Feliciano. "Is it bad?"

"No, it's not what you think. Every nation has to do at one point in their lives. When I came to see you that one time, Feli, I could only do it while you were sleeping because that was how I paid for the visit anyhow. And two thousand years is a long time, so if I suddenly come back and forget who you are, take care to remember me. Okay?"

"Why are you saying this, Grandpa? Why does it sound like you're leaving for good?"

"I'm not, believe me. In case it happens, I want you to remember me."

"We'll never forget you," swore Feliciano. "Right, _fratello_?"

"Well, it's two thousand years. I might take a while to**—**"

"_Fratello_."

"Er, right."

"Thank you, the both you," said Rome.

* * *

**Mattie! Mattie, get up! If you don't run, you're done for . . . !**

Those words were but a blur behind Matthew's racing thoughts. A tall, grotesque figure leaned toward him, its claws extended. It cracked its appendages a few times, sounding very much like the _clickity-clack-clack_ of bones.

Matthew was unaware of the events going on around him. He was preoccupied with getting his act together. His head hurt too much. He couldn't even remember what he was here for in the first place.

He knew he was done for. Matthew shut his eyes and silently prayed it would be over fast.

Three seconds passed and nothing happened. He cracked open an eye, confused. Shouldn't things have ended by now?

And then from out of nowhere, a giant, furry ball of white tackled the Frost Man, launching it to the side, where a battle of brute force ensued. Matthew grabbed his gun and crawled backwards from the brawl. He didn't want to be accidentally caught in it and then killed for real.

He tried processing what he was watching. He didn't remember ever seeing a third party in the house with him. But that fur was familiar.

Matthew's heart started beating rapidly. Could it be?!

"Kuma!" he shouted, unable to keep the happiness from his voice. The polar bear had magically grown to the size of an adult in such a short time. But the growth spurt helped. Kumajirou was effectively combatting the Frost Man. "Kuma, you're actually here!"

Kumajirou was in an unlikely position to answer, so Canada decided to help him out. He raised his gun and aimed carefully. If he didn't make this shot, and there was always an _if_ factor, he could very much kill off his own spirit guardian, if not the Frost Man with it.

There weren't many people who knew**—**well, people _knew_; they just couldn't remember**—**but Matthew was an adept sniper and overall shooter. He just wasn't confident of his abilities in a dark, closed space, using only a pistol. And his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

Kumajirou couldn't hold out much longer. The polar bear's movements were getting slower and not as powerful. It was now or never.

Matthew waited a millisecond more, and then fired.

The bullet ripped through the Frost Man's skull and shattered its head. The severed body crumbled to the carpeted floor in pieces. The echoing bang of the shot ricocheted off the walls, concluding the fight. Kumajirou licked his paws, cleaning off the grime he managed to accumulate during the brawl.

Matthew ran for Kumajirou and slid to his knees, wrapping his arms around the polar's neck. "I'm so glad you're here," he sobbed into Kuma's furry neck. "I don't know what would have happened if you didn't come."

"The battle is not over yet," said Kumajirou. "There are still more in the house. I didn't manage to find them all."

Matthew drew away. "What?! You were fighting them?!" He finally noticed the state of Kumajirou's fur. "Is that blood?!"

"No. Just some paint Alfred forgot to put away. I'm fine, but I'm a little tired."

"Oh . . ." Matthew relaxed considerably, but then he remembered that there were still more enemies in the house. "Kuma, we have to get out of here!"

"How?"

Matthew's attention switched to the dented armoured window. When the Frost Man earlier became frantic, it careened into the window so hard, it managed to dent the steal. Using the same amount of power it had, surely the window would be able to break after a few hits?

It wasn't much to go by, but he had to try.

"Kuma, how much longer can you sustain that form?"

"About two minutes."

Matthew pointed to the dented window. "Take that down with everything you've got. It's our ticket out of here."

Kumajirou growled. "Gladly."

While Kumajirou worked in scratching at the steel barrier, Matthew called Francis. He was about to tell the Frenchman news of his latest hope, but it was Francis who spoke first.

"_Matthew, are you all right?_"

"Yes," Matthew began cautiously, wondering why his papa sounded so excited.

"_You're not hurt?_"

"Not very, no. But Alfred might be."

"_I need to tell you something._"

"What is it?"

"_I found Alfred._"

Matthew sat there in silence, taking a few more seconds to absorbed what he just heard. "What?" he demanded, shaking his head. "How? You said magic didn't work on the house."

"_It doesn't. Alfred's not in the house._"

"_What?_"

"_He's in the forest a mile off. Somewhere, I don't know. But he's in the forest. It's so dense that my magic is having trouble tracking his exact location. We have to go on foot to find him._"

And suddenly Canada was assaulted with the words America had spoke before.

_I've dug myself a hole I could never get out of. Like a rabbit trap in the middle of the forest._

_Oh._ That made so much more sense, now.

America was not a poet. But as any soldier was capable of, he could bend words to his will and use it as a two-face to get a double message across. And he was doing that now.

Alfred often hung out with Matthew in his shed out back, not in the house. He called it his hidey-hole because it was so homey and warm. He built it in the exact place he caught his first rabbit. England was so proud that day. He even got to keep the rabbit as a pet.

His shed was located in the middle of the forest, a mile away from the house.

Matthew stood just as Kumajirou smashed his paw through the window, shattering the steel as well as the glass. "I know what do now," he told Francis. "I'm going to find Alfred."

"_Attends_. _You know where he is?_"

"Now I do."

"_That's great! Tell me so we can go together!_"

Matthew hesitated. "I don't think we have enough time."

"_What do you mean?_"

Matthew didn't know what exactly, but when Alfred was shouting at Tony to 'fight them', it sounded like Tony was being forced to act on behalf of the FM. So many things could happen during that time. He couldn't take the risk.

"I'll get a head-start, Papa. See you in the forest."

"_Mathieu, attends!_"

He flipped off the phone.

"Now what?" said Kumajirou, shrinking back to his normal size.

"Now, we**—**"

From somewhere behind him, Matthew heard growls and the skitter of claws on the hardboard floor. He grabbed Kumajirou into his arms and stuck a foot out the window.

"Now we jump."

He leapt out the gap, barely noticing as the broken window cut into his arms and face. Because the only thing Matthew really paid attention to, was the height.

Falling three stories wasn't fun. It probably wasn't that high, and he was a nation after all, but it still hurt. Matthew impacted the ground on his shoulder, careful to make sure Kumajirou was protected. He felt all the air rush out his lungs.

Kumajirou untangled himself from his master and accessed Canada's well-being. Still breathing, still alive. That was what mattered.

"We have to go!" Kumajirou insisted. "They will come!"

Matthew pushed himself off the ground. At least the grass provided _some_ cushioning.

He crawled to his feet and began running towards the forest, Kumajirou at his side. If the polar bear was its true size, Matthew wouldn't have to deal with the running because he could just ride on Kumajirou's back. But it would be a while before Kuma could transform again.

"Use your nose, Kuma," Matthew said. "Sniff for Alfred's scent."

Kumajirou did so and angled slightly to the left. Matthew followed the bear's lead. He just hoped they were fast enough to save Alfred in time.

* * *

Francis lowered the phone and shook his head. "No good. _Mathieu_, stop insisting on running off all by yourself. I came to help you for a reason, you know."

Abruptly a loud, terrified screaming penetrated his ears, belonging to two specific nations. Francis looked up and saw a giant magical circle open up in the air, glowing a faint blue. He only had time to change his expression to "Oh, fuck!" before Prussia and Spain fell through the circle.

The Bad Touch Trio lay on the pavement on top of each other, shaking the stars out of their vision. Francis was unfortunately stuck on the bottom, with Gilbert on top.

"Glad you could join me so gracefully," Francis muttered, glaring upwards.

"Sorry!" Antonio said. "Gilbert's not very good with magic!"

"Hey! I tried my best!"

"Get off!" Francis said. "Your fat _derrière_ is crushing us!"

Gilbert held his nose in the air. "I resent that!"

He hopped off the human pile and studied his surroundings, a weathered old book tucked under his arm. That must have been the spell book he used to teleport him and Antonio to New York. The Prussian was also sporting duo swords on his back.

"I think I did a pretty good job," Gilbert said defensively. "I got the location right, didn't I?"

"I think you failed to etch 'on land' into your circle," Francis said. "By the way, who on earth was stupid enough to let you borrow their magic?"

"It was Bulgaria," said Antonio cheerily. "He was too busy to send us over himself, so he simply gave Gilbert a magical pass to 'borrow' his magic."

"So you're saying," Francis began, horrified, "that Prussia has magical capabilities now?"

"It's temporary."

Francis deflated in relief. "Oh, thank God."

Gilbert chuckled smugly and waved a finger in a circle, conjuring Gilbird into existence. "Hehe, isn't this awesome? Man, I love magic. Well, I wish I had _this_ much magic, that is."

"Oh yeah," recalled Antonio, "why did you want us down here again?"

"Alfred is in trouble," Francis recounted. "Matthew has gone off to search for him, but I fear he isn't alone out there. We have to assist them."

"Matt's in trouble?" Gilbert said. "Then we gotta go help him!"

"You figure out why these Frost Men are attacking those two?" Antonio asked.

Francis shook his head. He started leading his friends towards the back of America's house, where a pathway led off into the forest. "I'm not entirely sure, and Matthew clearly hasn't told me everything that has gone on in that house. But it's safe to say that the Frost Men don't want us to know they're back quite yet, seeing as they took the liberty to kidnap Alfred in secret and personally have Matthew come down here to pay for whatever he's done."

"And let me guess," Antonio said, "revenge?"

"I believe so."

"That makes Antonio in the same boat, doesn't it?" Gilbert said. "He killed one of their brethren. These FM guys probably took Alfred to bait Matt, so that technically makes anyone who's close to Antonio also in danger."

Francis uttered a few words and slapped Antonio in the forehead. A violet magic circle melded into his skin.

"What was that for?" Antonio said.

"To protect you. You're going to be especially vulnerable out there. You're a target, remember?"

"Oh, right . . ." Antonio's green eyes fluttered with alarm. "Wait, what if something happens to Lovi or Feli because of me? I'm not in Europe to protect them!"

"They'll be okay," Gilbert said, smirking widely. "Lud's got them."

Antonio exhaled. "North America seems like their prime target at the moment, though. I wonder why."

Francis held them back as they crossed the corner. He told them to stay quiet and watched the third floor carefully. A pair of white, porcelain legs protruded from the window, and then an entire Frost Man hopped onto the ground.

The BTT cursed and hid behind the corner. The FM didn't seem to notice them; they were more fixated on chasing after something in the distance.

"We have to go after them," Gilbert hissed. "There's no way I'd let them get to Matt before we do."

"You all have weapons?" Francis said.

Along with his duo swords, Gilbert had also stashed a firearm into his boots and a couple of grenades into his belt. Antonio was wielding his pirate sword, a Uzi strapped to his back with the appropriate ammo belt slung around his shoulders. The both of them looked ready for a fight.

Francis drew out a spell book and patted his waist for his gun. All was present.

"Let's go."

* * *

**It's a bit of a shorter chapter this time, but a lot is happening! I'm so happy the BTT are together! There is going to be some major ass-kicking in the future. Everything will be concluded next chapter, and then we'll get along with England's storyline, which is guaranteed to be . . . appropriate.  
**

**Leave a review, let me know what you think. **

**My new story is out, titled _Stolen._ Check it out if you have the time. If you don't like pirate AUs, well . . . That's fine. But you have to admit pirates are badass.**


	18. XVIII: BTT

Only a few Frost Men followed the first. Prussia, France and Spain watched carefully as the last of them exited Alfred's mansion.

After the pale creatures had disappeared into the forest, the BTT slunk quietly after them. The Frost Men had an acute sense of hearing, and one misstep could cause the beasts to swing around and target them instead.

Though at this point, this was what they had hoped. Matthew was already on his way to Alfred's location, and if those Frost Men got to him, they were all done for. Not just Matthew, but all three of them included. After killing the North American brothers, the FM weren't going to hesitate to track the rest of them down and eat them alive**—**or whatever it was the Frost Men did to their enemies.

"I don't see how we couldn't have taken them out as they jumped out of the freaking window," Gilbert said. "That way, they could be disposed of before they get to Matt."

"Even if there are three of us, we're still outnumbered," Francis said. "Do you think they're stupid? They'll definitely have reinforcements in the forest or God knows elsewhere. Our best bet is to take them by surprise."

"Besides, Matthew has his bear with him," Antonio pointed out.

Gilbert huffed. "Yeah, well, let's just hurry."

The trio entered the tree line and took note of the eerie calm that had enveloped the woods. There was no creature in sight; no squirrels skittering along the grass, no birds singing up in the trees . . . Everything was dead silent.

"This is creepy," spoke Antonio, shivering. "I don't suppose any of you have a handy fire alarm on you?"

"Not today, _mon ami_. It's just us and our weapons."

"How many do you think are running around right now?"

"I'll take a good guess," said Gilbert. He paused. "A lot."

Antonio looked down at his feet and watched the noise they made whenever he took a step. It sounded like drums in the quiet forest. The back of his neck prickled as he realized how easily heard the three of them were. And vulnerable.

"Guys," he said, and all three of them stopped moving. Antonio turned and gazed upward. "I think we're being watched. They know we're here."

"There goes the surprise attack," said Gilbert rather loudly. "Can we blow stuff up now?"

"Wait a minute, we'll get to that," said Francis. "First we need to figure out which way we're taking."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Francis pointed up ahead. The pathway they were walking on split into two forks.

"Oh, come on," Gilbert complained. "Really? What is this, a movie? There just _has_ to be a block in our plans, doesn't there?"

"On the contrary," Francis said, "this felt a lot easier than I expected. A fork in the road? Too . . . simple. There's got to be more to this."

"Are you saying that one path will lead to doom, and another to Matthew?" asked Antonio. "Two paths, huh? Looks like we'll have to split up."

"I'll go on my own, because I'm awesome," said Prussia. "You two form a team and pick a path. I don't care which, as long as I get to kill some monsters."

"Are you sure that's wise?" said Francis.

"When has the lack of wisdom ever hindered me? I'm telling you**—**I'll be fine."

"So . . ." Antonio stared down the two paths. One dropped low into a small valley**—**at what looked to be a dried up riverbed—and another sloped uphill toward some boulders. "Which way?"

A loud growling interrupted their thoughts. It came from the direction of the rocks.

Gilbert drew his swords. "That's my cue. Later, guys. Wish me luck."

"Gilbert, wait—!"

But Gilbert had dragged himself up the incline and had long disappeared before Francis could finish his sentence.

"_Merde_. That guy is terribly impulsive. He'll really get killed off one day."

Antonio chuckled. "What can you do, right?" His face grew serious. "We should hurry, too."

Francis nodded solemnly and he and Antonio edged downward into the valley. Dead branches and dried leaves snagged at their feet and pants. By the time they reached the bottom-most point of the riverbed, walls of tree root surrounded their vision. The only light they could see came from directly above their heads, and even then the tree foliage blotted out most of it.

"Don't you feel like this is a trap?" asked Antonio. "The only way out of here is behind us and in front of us. What if they gather around and close us off?"

"That could be a problem," Francis admitted. "I'm rather worried about Prussia, though. He's fighting the Frost Men on his own, which can't be good."

A powerful blast boomed through the forest, shaking the earth under their feet and displacing any loose dirt. This was immediately followed by a couple of bright flashes and high whines of magical energy.

"Never mind. I forgot he had magic."

Both Spain and France continued to tread through the riverbed. They snaked onward endlessly until they were met with a dark and damp cave. It was more like a tunnel or a hole. The opening was narrow enough for the both of them to squeeze through at once, but not tall enough to meet their height.

"We're going through here?" Antonio said.

"I don't want to either, _mon ami_, but how else are we supposed to make any progress?"

From somewhere up above, they heard a twig snap. They didn't have to search for the source of the sound for long, because a dozen Frost Men had literally circled around them during their brief exchange about the cave. How quickly they've managed to gather, Francis didn't want to fathom. All he wished now was to be anywhere but here.

Antonio grabbed his shirt and ducked into the cave, hauling the gaping Frenchman after him.

"Hurry! Seal off the entrance!"

Francis snapped out of his stupor and swiftly muttered a spell. A transparent wall of purple glowed between the cave entrance and almost disappeared. However, this clearly wasn't the case as the FM uselessly smashed their bodies against the force field, trying to break its boundaries.

"Are you okay?" Antonio said, watching as his friend flinched as if the FM's actions pained him.

"It's nothing," said Francis, wiping some sweat from his brow. "They're stronger than I thought, that's all."

Antonio faced the dark expanse of the cave. "Can you get a light going? I have a feeling it's not going to be an easy trip through here. Sorry if I'm not much help, by the way."

"Not much help?" Francis raised his eyebrows incredulously. He had no idea how the Spaniard managed to come up with such a ridiculous notion. "Why do you say that?"

"I'm not strong enough to survive on my own, like how Gilbert is. I don't have magic like you. I just . . . have my optimism, and even sometimes, that's not enough. I wish I could do more." Antonio looked behind his shoulder at the FM pounding against the magical shield. "But never mind me, we have to get moving. You can't keep that up forever, can you?"

Francis nodded guiltily. It was true that he was using his own energy to supply the force field. He could only hold it up for so long before it collapsed.

"But Antonio, how come you've never said anything about this?" he asked after a while, as they were gathering their orientation in the vast underground. He held a floating ball of light in his palm.

"About what?" said Antonio lightly, oblivious again.

"About you . . . not being much of a help."

Francis didn't know if it was a trick of the light, but Antonio's expression grew dark and foreboding. Shadows flickered around his face in a way that make Francis shiver. But maybe that last part was because of the coldness of the place.

"Remember when I was attacked?" Antonio said. "I couldn't do anything for the next few hours. I was helpless. Even when I woke up and was strong enough to stand and walk around, even then I relied too much on others. But I'm fine with that. The only thing I'm dwelling on is the fact that I could have done _more_."

"Are you still mulling over what happened with Lovino?" Francis whispered.

Antonio scratched his head. "I don't know. Maybe. He nearly died because of me."

"Antonio, he went on to lead the main group because he knew you couldn't. And you knew that too. You didn't have any other options."

"_Si_, I suppose you're right. But I keep thinking . . ."

In the background, a faint shattering echoed through the cave and a second later Francis collapsed to his knees, holding a spot near his abdomen.

"Francis?" Antonio said urgently, kneeling down next to his friend.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" the Frenchman spoke hurriedly. He placed a hand on Antonio's shoulder and stood. "We have to leave. _Now_."

"What?"

"Go! They're coming!"

Antonio didn't need to be told twice. With Francis in front, the both of them ran through the cave, hopefully towards the exit. All around them, not just behind them, a rapid skittering of claws on rock grated their ears.

"This way!" Francis yelled, and he made a sharp turn.

Antonio skidded against the damp floor and darted after him. He nearly lost Francis once, but for some reason Antonio just knew where to go. Perhaps the spell Francis slapped onto his forehead earlier helped play a part in this. It acted sort of like a homing beacon to the original caster. Francis also seemed to know exactly where he was heading. Antonio supposed it was a spell he'd cast earlier on in order to help find the exit.

"HOW MUCH FARTHER?!" he shouted.

Francis didn't reply. He'd stopped running.

Antonio halted next to him. "What . . . ?"

Francis pointed down.

Antonio looked. And he almost fell back with shock.

The ledge in front of them dropped down at least twelve metres. When the river had still existed, the water coursed through the cave and out through the exit in the form of a waterfall. The level of water at the bottom of the cliff now was too little to provide safe cushioning for if they did decide to jump.

"What do we do?" said Antonio. "Can your magic levitate us?"

"I could try, but that will use up the majority of my magic, and we can't have that happening."

That was true. Antonio didn't want to be lugging around a drowsy, blond Frenchman on his back while running away from a bunch of crazed mutants at the same time.

"Then we don't have any choice, do we?" said Antonio, locking eyes with his friend.

Francis gulped and steeled himself as the first of the FM neared. He hadn't anticipated on meeting his end in North America. It wasn't romantic at all. He preferred dying in the arms of his beloved _Angleterre_ back on home soil.

"Francis."

"Huh?" His mind was numb from watching his life flash before his eyes. And he'd had a long life. It took quite a while to sort out all those time periods.

"Francis, we have to jump."

"_What?_" Okay, now his head was clear again. And apparently Spain's wasn't. Had he gone insane?

Antonio was staring down at the bottom in a trance. "Francis, the protection spell you placed on me earlier. It will save me _one_ life-or-death situation, right? If I cushion your fall, the both of us should still live."

"But what about afterwards? You'd be defenseless."

"That's fine with me. We have to worry about _now_."

Francis clenched his jaw. He really didn't want to do this.

"But—but how are we going about doing this? Do I just—just jump on your back? I don't understand—"

A pale, nearly translucent arm stuck out from the darkness between their two heads.

"No time—" Antonio grabbed Francis. "JUMP!"

They launched themselves off the ledge, and they plummeted rapidly, the wind rushing past their faces, the water beneath them approaching fast, and in a matter of seconds, they had hit the surface with a smash and were swallowed by the black, murky depths of the river below them.

The FM above lingered around their previous location and grunted amongst themselves, trying to deduce just where their prey had disappeared. Eventually they gave up and retreated back into the caves, as nothing, not even a soul, had reemerged from the river below.

Everything was still.

* * *

"Kesesesesese! I won't be bested again, you hear me?!"

Gilbert swung his duo swords in a pinwheel fashion, each arm's movement mirroring the next's. He had engaged the Frost Men shortly after leaving (ditching) Francis and Antonio. There were about four of them originally, a good number for a fair fight—against him anyway, because he was awesome—but he had narrowed it down to three by throwing a grenade into one of the FM's mouth.

Those FM really did need to learn to close their mouths when intimidating their enemies. Their life-expectancy would dramatically increase if they did just that.

"Come on!" Gilbert shouted. "Come on! Is this all you can do?!"

The Frost Man he was combating swung its claws and Prussia ducked just in time for a couple of his hairs to be swiped clean from his head. Gilbert growled and stabbed upwards. His blade, as expected, merely scraped against the FM's hard skin. Gilbert quickly retracted his sword and rolled backward, avoiding the second Frost Man's pounce.

His situation sucked because the Frost Men were telepathic and therefore could communicate to each other. They knew when to come in, they knew whose role it was to distract and whose to finish off . . . It was so annoying.

And worse, he had no idea what happened to the third Frost Man. It was like it was called to someplace else for another job and left everything to its two other brethren.

"Ah, hell," he said, sheathing his swords and drawing out Bulgaria's spellbook. "I'll just blast 'em all. I have someplace to be, after all! Can't keep Matt waiting!"

He leafed through the book and stopped at the offensive spell section. He licked his lips and raised his arm.

"All right, ugly. Say goodbye."

The two Frost Men lowered themselves onto the forest floor, their limbs protruding jaggedly from their equally spiny bodies, drool dripping from their sharp incisors. Prussia's hand began glowing an intense blood red, his spell charging up to its max potential.

The Frost Men shot forward. Gilbert's spell exploded forward like a cannon.

It slammed against the first Frost Man, pushing it back but not killing it, and it snapped an arm right off the next one. The spell's recoil sent Gilbert tumbling back into a trunk of a grand oak tree. The red light in his palm faded to be replaced by his next set of spells: bright pulses of black fire that licked away at the Frost Men's skin, rendering them vulnerable to weaponry.

Gilbert dished out his pistol and shot a few rounds at the nearest creature. The bullets did not tear through like Gilbert thought it would—instead, the bullets sunk into the FM's white body and left deep, black holes in their place. And surprisingly, it began to bleed.

The blood was the most blackest of black Gilbert had ever seen—almost like tar. Thick globs of liquid bubbled from the bullet holes like thick syrup. As each drop met the ground, it began to eat away at the soil like acid. The smell was so foul, Gilbert had to clamp a hand over his face to keep from throwing up.

He had never thought the Frost Men _could_ bleed. He had heard about defeating these things via vulnerable cavities like its mouth, but all that was left of a corpse was shattered porcelain. No signs of blood anywhere.

Except, no one had ever tried lowering a FM's defense with magic, and then proceed to injure them. This revelation was certainly astonishing, but Gilbert didn't have the time to ogle in amazement. The Frost Men were up and working again—of course, one was missing an arm and the other littered with holes, but even that didn't seem to hinder them in the slightest.

"What the _hell_ are you?" Gilbert wondered genuinely for the first time. "Just _who_ are you?"

**We are the past.**

Gilbert stumbled backward as an assault of thoughts invaded his mind.

**We came before.**

**We were the first.**

**We are the last.**

**We created.**

**We destroyed.**

**We prospered.**

**We withered.**

**We rose.**

**We fell.**

**We were what we had been, and what we shall never be again.**

Distracted by their message and trying to interpret their meaning, Gilbert didn't notice the Frost Men lunge at him. He only had time to block with one weak magical barrier before he was shot backward by the force and sent vaulting head-over-heels down the hill.

Midway through reaching the bottom, Gilbert was assaulted by, apparently, the third previously missing FM that randomly decided to go for a lunch break. The both of them clawed at each other, wrestling it out as they tumbled downhill.

Gilbert managed to reach behind him and draw out his gun in-between the struggle. With a huge amount of effort, he fought off the Frost Man's claws for a millisecond, placed the barrel of the gun into its mouth, and fired.

The shot blasted the head straight off the body, leaving a crumbling carcass laid out over the Prussian. Gilbert coughed and dusted himself off, shaking his head out and watching as bits and pieces of marble rained down in front of his vision.

"Ugh," he grunted, spitting out some dirt. "I'm never doing that again." He wiped his mouth and looked around to see where he'd landed.

A large, onyx lake lay out in front of him. Willow trees dangled over the water like veils. There was some type of stone structure erected in various places around the lake, but most of it had eroded and crumbled. Gilbert looked over his shoulder and wondered if the remaining two Frost Men were going to pursue him. Perhaps it was safe to say now that he was a target.

Well, one of them probably had already died from blood loss, and the other one was probably smart enough to realize that it was no match for Gilbert, AKA The Awesome Me.

He was safe. For the moment. Who knows when back-up would show up.

"Come on, Matt," Gilbert muttered. "Give me a sign. Anything. I need to find you."

He secretly wondered how Antonio and Francis were faring, and if they encountered any monsters yet.

What was he thinking? It was likely they did.

"And what the hell is that old geezer Kirkland doing?!" Gilbert demanded. "Doesn't he know that his boys are in trouble?"

* * *

Arthur stared and blinked up at the darkness.

_I must be dead,_ he thought. _I have to be. Why do I still exist?  
_

He was aware of a dull ache at the back of his head and the intense pounding of his heart. He didn't understand his need for feeling frantic, but maybe that was adrenaline.

Adrenaline from what, for the life of him he couldn't remember. His weird dream from before still plagued his memories. In a way, he supposed that it may as well have come from the depths of his memories, but he'd blocked it out because it was too painful.

"Is this hell, then?" he wondered cynically, chuckling. "Does the Devil want to punish me by haunting me with my past?"

If it was hell, he only had one request.

Loneliness was maddening. He didn't want to be alone anymore.

"Scott, Edward, Mum, anyone . . ." he breathed. "_Alfred_. God, Alfred. Someone tell me why things turned out the way they did."

The loneliness, as cruel as it was, did not answer him.

* * *

**Okay, I know this is super late and I'm sorry. I took a hiatus during mid-terms, but when that had passed, I'd thought the workload was going to lessen, but sadly that was not the case. I quickly finished this because I had already started writing it, and exams are coming, so . . . expect the next chapter sometime later. I believe it's England's storyline next, but it could change.**

**Chapter 5 of _Stolen_ will be out soon, too! Thankfully, I've pre-written the first few chapters, so that's good.**

**Thanks for reading. You guys are absolutely fantastic for sticking with me through all this.**


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